TteRL 


HEROES 
RONTIER. 


lHUiiBilil 


BANCROFT 
LIBRARY 

o 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


THE  RED-BLOODED 


BY  EDGAR  BEECHER  BRONSON 

THE  VANGUARD 

REMINISCENSES  OF  A  RANCHMAN 
THE  RED-BLOODED 
IN  CLOSED  TERRITORY 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


THE  RED-BLOODED 
*  '  HEROES  *  • 
OF  THE  FRONTIER 


BY 

EDGAR  BEEGHER  BRONSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "COWBOY  LIFE  ON  THE 
WESTERN  PLAINS" 


Thrilling  stories  of  pioneer  life  and  deeds 
of  daring  along  the  Overland  Trail,  fac- 
ing annihilation  in  the  bloody  track  of 
the  crafty  Indian. 

Tales  of  frontier  heroes,  "  b  admen,"  out- 
laws, and  border  bandits  who  were 
"jugglers  with  death"  on  the  outposts  of 
civilization . 

19   Full-page   Stirring   Illustrations 


NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT 

A.  C.  MCCLURG  &  Co. 
1910 

Published  September  10,  1910 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England. 


The  author  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  the 
editors  of  periodicals  in  which  some  of  this  material 
has  appeared^  for  permission  to  use  the  same  in  this 
volume. 


(o 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  LOVING' s  BEND    .....          3 

II  A  Cow- HUNTERS'  COURT      .         .         .31 
o 

III  A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER          .       51 
H 

IV  TRIGGERFINGERITIS        ....        70 

V  A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH      .         .         .104 
<-\ 

VI  AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC    .          .          .          .125 

VII  THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER          149 
f 

VIII  CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS       .         .          .171 

IX  ACROSS  THE  BORDER    .          .          .          .194 

X  THE  THREE-LEGGED  DOE  AND  THE  BLIND 

BUCK 238 

XI  THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT  .          .          .     255 

XII     EL  TIGRE 277 

XIII     BUNKERED 299 

XIV  THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED      .         .     316 

XV  DJAMA  AOUT'S  HEROISM       .          .          .     329 

XVI  A  MODERN  CCEUR-DE-LION    .                    .     337 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 
'Burning  brush  dropped  from  above  failed  to  lodge 

before  the  recess"         ....    Frontispiece 

'The  loose  horses   were   guarded   by   the  'horse 

wrangler'  by  night" 6 

'  Loving  and  Jim  were  two  mere  specks  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  the  savage  sleuths  made  them  out 
as  horsemen — and  white  men"  ...  14 

!The  figure  of  a  prostrate  man,  apparently  dead"  .       20 

'  Slender,  sinewy  bronze  figures  creeping  and  crouch- 
ing like  panthers,  crafty  as  foxes,  their  presence 
was  rarely  known  until  the  blow  fell "  .  .  36 

'Nless  I  disremember,  thar's  some  red-eye  in  this 

yere  jug"     .....  .42 

The  great  loop  of  your  lariat  circling  and  hissing 

about  your  head "  .....       46 

Into  the  middle  of  the  road  sprang  a  lithe  figure"       74 

At  a  sharp  bend  of  the  trail  they  ran  into  Doc  and 

five  of  his  men" 86 

'I  climbed  half-way  up  the  netting,  opened  my 
knife  with  my  teeth,  and  cut  a  hole  about  two 
feet  long" 110 

Whitehill  found  a  fragment  of  a  Kansas  newspaper  "     1 62 


ILLUSTRATIONS  -  Continued 

*'  Out  sprang  a  dainty  figure  in  tulle  and  tights,  and 

fired  at  the  nearest  of  the  common  enemy"     .      190 

"The  six,  all  heavily  armed,  loped  past  us"  .          .     232 

'We  lay  close  without  returning  a  single  shot"      .     234 

"Of  a  rare  type  was  Sofia  in  Andalusia"         .         .     278 

Menelek  II,  Negus  Negusti,  "King  of  the  Kings 

of  Ethiopa,  and  Conquering  Lion  of  Judah"     •     318 

'* Disarmed  and  shackled,  Mirach  remained  a  sullen 

but  defiant  prisoner"     •          .          .          .          .     326 

''Throughout  Somaliland,  among  a  race  famous  for 
their  fearlessness,  the  name  of  Djama  Aout  is 
held  a  synony me  for  reckless  courage "  .  •  330 

Within  the  lion's  jaws  and  into  his  great  yawning 
mouth  Djama  Aout  thrust  pistol,  hand,  and 
forearm"  .  .  •  334 


THE  RED-BLOODED 


THE    RED-BLOODED 


CHAPTER  I 

LOVING'S  BEND 

FROM  San  Antonio  to  Fort  Griffin,  Joe  Lov- 
ing's  was  a  name  to  conjure  with  in  the  middle 
sixties.     His  tragic  story  is  still  told  and  re- 
told around  camp-fires  on  the  Plains. 

One  of  the  thriftiest  of  the  pioneer  cow-hunters,  he 
was  the  first  to  realize  that  if  he  would  profit  by  the 
fruits  of  his  labor  he  must  push  out  to  the  north  in 
search  of  a  market  for  his  cattle.  The  Indian  agencies 
and  mining  camps  of  northern  New  Mexico  and  Col- 
orado, and  the  Mormon  settlements  of  Utah,  were  the 
first  markets  to  attract  attention.  The  problem  of 
reaching  them  seemed  almost  hopeless  of  solution. 
Immediately  to  the  north  of  them  the  country  was 
trackless  and  practically  unknown.  The  only  thing 
certain  about  it  was  that  it  swarmed  with  hostile 
Indians.  What  were  the  conditions  as  to  water  and 
grass,  two  prime  essentials  to  moving  herds,  no  one 
knew.  To  be  sure,  the  old  overland  mail  road  to  El 
Paso,  Chihuahua,  and  Los  Angeles  led  out  west  from 
the  head  of  the  Concho  to  the  Pecos ;  and  once  on  the 

[3] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Pecos,  which  they  knew  had  its  source  indefinitely  in 
the  north,  a  practicable  route  to  market  should  be 
possible. 

But  the  trouble  was  to  reach  the  Pecos  across  the 
ninety  intervening  miles  of  waterless  plateau  called 
the  Llano  Estacado,  or  Staked  Plain.  This  plain 
was  christened  by  the  early  Spanish  explorers  who, 
looking  out  across  its  vast  stretches,  could  note  no 
landmark,  and  left  behind  them  driven  stakes  to  guide 
their  return.  An  elevated  tableland  averaging  about 
one  hundred  miles  wide  and  extending  four  hundred 
miles  north  and  south,  it  presents,  approaching  any- 
where from  the  east  or  the  west,  an  endless  line  of 
sharply  escarped  bluffs  from  one  hundred  to  two  hun- 
dred feet  high  that  with  their  buttresses  and  re- 
entrant angles  look  at  a  distance  like  the  walls  of  an 
enormous  fortified  town.  And  indeed  it  possesses 
riches  well  worth  fortifying. 

While  without  a  single  surface  spring  or  stream 
from  Devil's  River  in  the  south  to  Yellow  House 
Canon  in  the  north,  this  great  mesa  is  nevertheless 
the  source  of  the  entire  stream  system  of  central  and 
south  Texas.  Absorbing  thirstily  every  drop  of  moist- 
ure that  falls  upon  its  surface,  from  its  deep  bosom 
pours  a  vitalizing  flood  that  makes  fertile  and  has 
enriched  an  empire,  —  a  flood  without  which  Texas, 
now  producing  one-third  of  the  cotton  grown  in  the 
United  States,  would  be  an  arid  waste.  Bountiful  to 

[4] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

the  south  and  east,  it  is  niggardly  elsewhere,  and  only 
two  small  springs,  Grierson  a^d  Mescalero,  escape 
from  its  western  escarpment. 

A  driven  herd  normally  travels  only  twelve  to  sev- 
enteen miles  a  day,  and  even  less  than  this  in  the  early 
Spring  when  herds  usually  are  started.  It  therefore 
seemed  a  desperate  undertaking  to  enter  upon  the 
ninety-mile  "dry  drive,"  from  the  head  of  the  Con- 
cho  to  the  Horsehead  Crossing  of  the  Pecos,  wherein 
two-thirds  of  one's  cattle  were  likely  to  perish  for 
want  of  water. 

Joe  Loving  was  the  first  man  to  venture  it,  and  he 
succeeded.  He  traversed  the  Plain,  fought  his  way 
up  the  Pecos,  reached  a  good  market,  and  returned 
home  in  the  Autumn,  bringing  a  load  of  gold  and 
stories  of  hungry  markets  in  the  north  that  meant 
fortunes  for  Texas  ranchmen.  This  was  in  1866.  It 
was  the  beginning  of  the  great  "Texas  trail  drive," 
which  during  the  next  twenty  years  poured  six  mil- 
lion cattle  into  the  plains  and  mountains  of  the 
Northwest.  Of  this  great  industrial  movement,  Joe 
Loving  was  the  pioneer. 

At  this  time  Fort  Sumner,  situated  on  the  Pecos 
about  four  hundred  miles  above  Horsehead  Crossing, 
was  a  large  Government  post,  and  the  agency  of  the 
Navajo  Indians,  or  such  of  them  as  were  not  on  the 
war-path.  Here,  on  his  drive  in  the  Summer  of  1867, 
Loving  made  a  contract  for  the  delivery  at  the  post 

[5] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

the  ensuing  season  of  two  herds  of  beeves.  His  part- 
ner in  this  contract  was  Charles  Goodnight,  later  for 
many  years  the  proprietor  of  the  Palo  Duro  ranch 
in  the  Pan  Handle. 

Loving  and  Goodnight  were  young  then ;  they  had 
helped  to  repel  many  a  Comanche  assault  upon  the 
settlements,  had  participated  in  many  a  bloody  raid 
of  reprisal,  had  more  than  once  from  the  slight  shel- 
ter of  a  buffalo-wallow  successfully  defended  their 
lives,  and  so  they  entered  upon  their  work  with  little 
thought  of  disaster. 

Beginning  their  round-up  early  in  March  as  soon 
as  green  grass  began  to  rise,  selecting  and  cutting  out 
cattle  of  fit  age  and  condition,  by  the  end  of  the  month 
they  reached  the  head  of  the  Concho  with  two  herds, 
each  numbering  about  two  thousand  head.  Loving 
was  in  charge  of  one  herd  and  Goodnight  of  the  other. 

Each  outfit  was  composed  of  eight  picked  cowboys, 
well  drilled  in  the  rude  school  of  the  Plains,  a  "  horse 
wrangler,"  and  a  cook.  To  each  rider  was  assigned 
a  mount  of  five  horses,  and  the  loose  horses  were 
driven  with  the  herd  by  day  and  guarded  by  the 
"  horse  wrangler  "  by  night.  The  cook  drove  a  team 
of  six  small  Spanish  mules  hitched  to  a  mess  wagon. 
In  the  wagon  were  carried  provisions,  consisting  prin- 
cipally of  bacon  and  jerked  beef,  flour,  beans,  and 
coffee;  the  men's  blankets  and  "war  sacks,"  and  the 
simple  cooking  equipment.  Beneath  the  wagon  was 

[6] 


The  loose  horses  were  guarded  by  the  *  horse  wrangler' 
by  night" 


LOVING'S  BEND 

always  swung  a  "  rawhide  "  —  a  dried,  untanned,  un- 
scraped  cow's  hide,  fastened  by  its  four  corners  be- 
neath the  wagon  bed.  This  rawhide  served  a  double 
purpose:  first,  as  a  carryall  for  odds  and  ends;  and 
second,  as  furnishing  repair  material  for  saddles 
and  wagons.  In  it  were  carried  pots  and  kettles,  ex- 
tra horseshoes,  farriers'  tools,  and  firewood ;  for  often 
long  journeys  had  to  be  made  across  country  which 
did  not  furnish  enough  fuel  to  boil  a  pot  of  coffee. 
On  the  sides  of  the  wagon,  outside  the  wagon  box, 
were  securely  lashed  the  two  great  water  barrels,  each 
supplied  with  a  spigot,  which  are  indispensable  in 
trail  driving.  Where,  as  in  this  instance,  excep- 
tionally long  dry  drives  were  to  be  made,  other  water 
kegs  were  carried  in  the  wagons. 

Such  wagons  were  rude  affairs,  great  prairie 
schooners,  hooded  in  canvas  to  keep  out  the  rain. 
Some  of  them  were  miracles  of  patchwork,  racked  and 
strained  and  broken  till  scarcely  a  sound  bit  of  iron  or 
wood  remained,  but,  all  splinted  and  bound  with  strips 
of  the  cowboy's  indispensable  rawhide,  they  wabbled 
crazily  along,  with  many  f  shriek  and  groan,  threat- 
ening every  moment  to  collapse,  but  always  holding 
together  until  some  extraordinary  accident  required 
the  application  of  new  rawhide  bandages.  I  have  no 
doubt  there  are  wagons  of  this  sort  in  use  in  Texas 
to-day  that  went  over  the  trail  in  1868. 

The  men  need  little  description,  for  the  cowboy 

[7] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

type  has  been  made  familiar  by  Buffalo  Bill's  m< 
truthful  exhibitions  of  plains  life.  Lean,  wiry, 
bronzed  men,  their  legs  cased  in  leather  chaparejos, 
with  small  boots,  high  heels,  and  great  spurs,  the] 
were,  despite  their  loose,  slouchy  seat,  the  best  rough- 
riders  in  the  world. 

Cowboy  character  is  not  well  understood.  Its  mosl 
distinguishing  trait  was  absolute  fidelity.  As  long 
he  liked  you  well  enough  to  take  your  pay  and  eal 
your  grub,  you  could,  except  in  very  rare  instances, 
rely  implicitly  upon  his  faithfulness  and  honesty.  To 
be  sure,  if  he  got  the  least  idea  he  was  being  misused 
he  might  begin  throwing  lead  at  you  out  of  the  busi- 
ness end  of  a  gun  at  any  time ;  but  so  long  as  he  liked 
you,  he  was  just  as  ready  with  his  weapons  in  your 
defence,  no  matter  what  the  odds  or  who  the  enemy. 
Another  characteristic  trait  was  his  profound  respect 
for  womanhood.  I  never  heard  of  a  cowboy  insulting 
a  woman,  and  I  don't  believe  any  real  cowboy  evei 
did.  Men  whose  nightly  talk  around  the  camp-fire  is 
of  home  and  "  mammy  "  a:  -  apt  to  be  a  pretty  good 
sort.  And  yet  another  qu  lity  for  which  he  was  re- 
markable was  his  patient,  uncomplaining  endurance 
of  a  life  of  hardship  and  privation  equalled  only 
among  seafarers.  Drenched  by  rain  or  bitten  by 
snow,  scorched  by  heat  or  stiffened  by  cold,  he  passed 
it  all  off  with  a  jest.  Of  a  bitterly  cold  night  he 
might  casually  remark  about  the  quilts  that  com- 

[8] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

posed  his  bed:  "These  here  durned  huldys  ain't 
much  thicker  'n  hen  skin!"  Or  of  a  hot  night: 
"Reckon  ole  mammy  must  'a  stuffed  a  hull  bale  of 
cotton  inter  this  yere  ole  huldy."  Or  in  a  pouring 
rain :  "  'Pears  like  ole  Mahster's  got  a  durned  fool 
idee  we'uns  is  web-footed."  Or  in  a  driving  snow 
storm:  "Ef  ole  Mahster  had  to  git  rid  o'  this  yere 
damn  cold  stuff,  he  might  'a  dumped  it  on  fellers 
what  's  got  more  firewood  handy." 

Vices?  Well,  such  as  the  cowboy  had,  some  one 
who  loves  him  less  will  have  to  describe.  Perhaps  he 
was  a  bit  too  frolicsome  in  town,  and  too  quick  to 
settle  a  trifling  dispute  with  weapons;  but  these 
things  were  inevitable  results  of  the  life  he  led. 

In  driving  a  herd  over  a  known  trail  where  water 
and  grass  are  abundant,  an  experienced  trail  boss 
conforms  the  movement  of  his  herd  as  near  as  possi- 
ble to  the  habit  of  wild  cattle  on  the  range.  At  dawn 
the  herd  rises  from  the  bed  ground  and  is  "  drifted  " 
or  grazed,  without  pushing,  in  the  desired  direction. 
By  nine  or  ten  o'clock  they  have  eaten  their  fill,  and 
then  they  are  "strung  out  on  the  trail"  to  water. 
They  step  out  smartly,  two  men — one  at  either  side 
—  "  pointing  "  the  leaders ;  and  "swing  "  riders  along 
the  sides  push  in  the  flanks,  until  the  herd  is  strung 
out  for  a  mile  or  more,  a  narrow,  bright,  particolored 
ribbon  of  moving  color  winding  over  the  dark  green 
of  hill  and  plain.  In  this  way  they  easily  march  off 

[9] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

six  to  nine  miles  by  noon.  When  they  reach  water 
they  are  scattered  along  the  stream,  drink  their  fill 
and  lie  down.  Dinner  is  then  eaten,  and  the  boys  not 
on  herd  doze  in  the  shade  of  the  wagon,  until,  a  little 
after  two  o'clock,  the  herd  rise  of  their  own  accord 
and  move  away,  guided  by  the  riders.  Rather  less 
distance  is  made  in  the  afternoon.  At  twilight  the 
herd  is  rounded  up  into  a  close  circular  compact  mass 
and  "bedded  down"  for  the  night,  the  first  relief  of 
the  night  guard  riding  slowly  round,  singing  softly 
and  turning  back  stragglers.  If  properly  grazed,  in 
less  than  a  half-hour  the  herd  is  quiet  and  at  rest; 
and,  barring  an  occasional  wild  or  hungry  beast  try- 
ing to  steal  away  into  the  darkness,  so  they  lie  till 
dawn  unless  stampeded  by  some  untoward  incident. 

Every  two  or  three  hours  a  new  "  relief "  is  called 
and  the  night  guard  changed.  Round  and  round  all 
night  ride  the  guards,  jingling  their  spurs  and  dron- 
ing some  low  monotonous  song,  recounting  through 
endless  stanzas  the  fearless  deeds  of  some  frontier 
hero,  or  humming  some  love  ditty  rather  too  passion- 
ate for  gentle  ears. 

But  when  a  ninety-mile  drive  across  the  Staked 
Plain  is  to  be  done,  all  this  easy  system  is  changed. 
In  order  to  make  the  journey  at  all  the  pace  must  be 
forced  to  the  utmost,  and  the  cattle  kept  on  their  legs 
and  moving  as  long  as  they  can  stand. 

Therefore,  when  Loving  and  Goodnight  reached 
[10] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

the  head  of  the  Concho,  two  full  days'  rest  were  taken 
to  recuperate  the  "  drags,"  or  weaker  cattle.  Then, 
late  one  afternoon,  after  the  herd  had  been  well  grazed 
and  watered,  the  water  barrels  and  kegs ,  filled,  the 
herd  was  thrown  on  the  trail  and  driven  away  into  the 
west,  without  halt  or  rest,  throughout  the  night. 
Thus,  driving  in  the  cool  of  the  night  and  of  the  early 
morning  and  late  evening,  resting  through  the  heat 
of  midday  when  travel  would  be  most  exhausting,  the 
herd  was  pushed  on  westward  for  three  nights  and 
four  days. 

On  these  dry  drives  the  horses  suffer  most,  for 
every  rider  is  forced,  in  his  necessary  daily  work,  to 
cover  many  times  the  distance  travelled  by  the  herd, 
and  therefore  the  horses,  doing  the  heaviest  work,  are 
refreshed  by  an  occasional  sip  of  the  precious  con- 
tents of  the  water  barrels  —  as  long  as  it  lasts.  By 
night  of  the  second  day  of  this  drive  every  drop  of 
water  is  consumed,  and  thereafter,  with  tongues 
parched  and  swollen  by  the  clouds  of  dust  raised  by 
the  moving  multitude,  thin,  drawn,  and  famished  for 
water,  men,  horses,  and  cattle  push  madly  ahead. 

Come  at  last  within  fifteen  miles  of  the  Pecos,  even 
the  leaders,  the  strongest  of  the  herd,  are  staggering 
along  with  dull  eyes  and  drooping  heads,  apparently 
ready  to  fall  in  their  tracks.  Suddenly  the  whole 
appearance  of  the  cattle  changes ;  heads  are  eagerly 
raised,  ears  pricked  up,  eyes  brighten;  the  leaders 

EH] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

step  briskly  forward  and  break  into  a  trot.  Cow- 
hunters  say  they  smell  the  water.  Perhaps  they  do, 
or  perhaps  it  is  the  last  desperate  struggle  for  exist- 
ence. Anyway,  the  tide  is  resistless.  Nothing  can 
check  them,  and  four  men  gallop  in  the  lead  to  control 
and  handle  them  as  much  as  possible  when  they  reach 
the  stream.  Behind,  the  weaker  cattle  follow  at  the 
best  pace  they  can.  In  this  way  over  the  last  stage  a 
single  herd  is  strung  out  over  a  length  of  four  or  five 
miles. 

Great  care  is  needed  when  the  stream  is  reached  to 
turn  them  in  at  easy  waterings,  for  in  their  maddened 
state  they  would  bowl  over  one  another  down  a  bluff 
of  any  height;  and  they  often  do  so,  for  men  and 
horses  are  almost  equally  wild  to  reach  the  water, 
and  indifferent  how  they  get  there. 

However,  the  Pecos  was  reached  and  the  herds 
watered  with  comparatively  small  losses,  and  both 
Loving's  and  Goodnight's  outfits  lay  at  rest  for  three 
days  to  recuperate  at  Horsehead  Crossing.  Then 
the  drive  up  the  wide,  level  valley  of  the  Pecos  was 
begun,  through  thickets  of  tornilla  and  mesquite, 
horses  and  cattle  grazing  belly-deep  in  the  tall,  juicy 
zacaton. 

The  perils  of  the  Llano  Estacado  were  behind 
them,  but  they  were  now  in  the  domain  of  the  Co- 
manche  and  in  hourly  danger  of  ambush  or  open  at- 
tack. They  found  a  great  deal  of  Indian  "sign," 
[12] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

their  trails  and  camps ;  but  the  "  sign  "  was  ten  days 
or  two  weeks  old,  which  left  ground  for  hope  that  the 
war  parties  might  be  out  on  raids  in  the  east  or  south. 
After  travelling  four  days  up  the  Pecos  without  en- 
countering any  fresh  "sign,"  they  concluded  that 
the  Indians  were  off  on  some  foray;  therefore  it  was 
decided  that  Loving  might  with  reasonable  safety 
proceed  ahead  of  the  herds  to  make  arrangements  at 
Fort  Sumner  for  their  delivery,  provided  he  travelled 
only  by  night,  and  lay  in  concealment  during  the  day. 
In  Loving's  outfit  were  two  brothers,  Jim  and  Bill 
Scott,  who  had  accompanied  his  two  previous  Pecos 
drives,  and  were  his  most  experienced  and  trusted 
men.  He  chose  Jim  Scott  for  his  companion  on  the 
dash  through  to  Fort  Sumner.  When  dark  came, 
Loving  mounted  a  favorite  mule,  and  Jim  his  best 
horse;  then,  each  well  armed  with  a  Henry  rifle  and 
two  six-shooters,  with  a  brief  "  So  long,  boys ! "  to 
Goodnight  and  the  men,  they  trotted  off  up  the  trail. 
Riding  rapidly  all  night,  they  hid  themselves  just 
before  dawn  in  the  rough  hills  below  Pope's  Crossing, 
ate  a  snack,  and  then  slept  undisturbed  till  nightfall. 
As  soon  as  it  was  good  dusk  they  slipped  down  a  ra- 
vine to  the  river,  watered  their  mounts,  and  resumed 
the  trail  to  the  north.  This  night  also  was  unevent- 
ful, except  that  they  rode  into,  and  roused,  a  great 
herd  of  sleeping  buffalo,  which  ran  thundering  away 
over  the  Plain. 

[13] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Dawn  came  upon  them  riding  through  a  level  coun- 
try about  fifteen  miles  below  the  present  town  of 
Carlsbad,  without  cover  of  any  sort  to  serve  for  their 
concealment  through  the  day.  They  therefore  de- 
cided to  push  on  to  the  hills  above  the  mouth  of  Dark 
Canon.  Here  was  their  mistake.  Had  they  ridden  a 
mile  or  two  to  the  west  of  the  trail  and  dismounted 
before  daylight,  they  probably  would  not  have  been 
discovered.  It  was  madness  for  two  men  to  travel  by 
day  in  that  country,  whether  fresh  sign  had  been 
seen  or  not.  But,  anxious  to  reach  a  hiding  place 
where  both  might  venture  to  sleep  through  the  day, 
they  pressed  on  up  the  trail.  And  they  paid  dearly 
the  penalty  of  their  foolhardiness. 

Other  riders  were  out  that  morning,  riders  with 
eyes  keen  as  a  hawk's,  eyes  that  never  rested  for  a  mo- 
ment, eyes  set  in  heads  cunning  as  foxes  and  cruel  as 
wolves.  A  war  party  of  Comanches  was  out  and  on 
the  move  early,  and,  as  is  the  crafty  Indian  custom, 
was  riding  out  of  sight  in  the  narrow  valley  below 
the  well-rounded  hills  that  lined  the  river.  But  while 
hid  themselves,  their  scouts  were  out  far  ahead,  creep- 
ing along  just  beneath  the  edge  of  the  Plain,  scanning 
keenly  its  broad  stretches,  alert  for  quarry.  And 
they  soon  found  it. 

Loving  and  Jim  hove  in  sight! 

To   be   sure   they   were   only   two   specks   in  the 

[14] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

distance,  but  the  trained  eyes  of  these  savage  sleuths 
quickly  made  them  out  as  horsemen,  and  white  men. 

Halting  for  the  main  war  party  to  come  up,  they 
held  a  brief  council  of  war,  which  decided  that  the  at- 
tack should  be  delivered  two  or  three  miles  farther 
up  the  river,  where  the  trail  swerved  in  to  within  a 
few  hundred  yards  of  the  stream.  So  the  scouts 
mounted,  and  the  war  party  jogged  leisurely  north- 
ward and  took  stand  opposite  the  bend  in  the  trail. 

On  came  Loving  and  Jim,  unwarned  and  unsus- 
pecting, their  animals  jaded  from  the  long  night's 
ride.  They  reached  the  bend.  And  just  as  Jim, 
pointing  to  a  low  round  hill  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
west  of  them,  remarked,  "Thar'd  be  a  blame  good 
place  to  stan'  off  a  bunch  o'  Injuns,"  they  were 
startled  by  the  sound  of  thundering  hoofs  off  on 
their  right  to  the  east.  Looking  quickly  round  they 
saw  a  sight  to  make  the  bravest  tremble. 

Racing  up  out  of  the  valley  and  out  upon  them, 
barely  four  hundred  yards  away,  came  a  band  of 
forty  or  fifty  Comanche  warriors,  crouching  low  on 
their  horses'  withers,  madly  plying  quirt  and  heel  to 
urge  their  mounts  to  their  utmost  speed. 

Their  own  animals  worn  out,  escape  by  running 
was  hopeless.  Cover  must  be  sought  where  a  stand 
could  be  made,  so  they  whirled  about  and  spurred 
away  for  the  hill  Jim  had  noted.  Their  pace  was 

[15] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

slow  at  the  best.  The  Indians  were  gaining  at  every 
jump  and  had  opened  fire,  and  before  half  the  dis- 
tance to  the  hill  was  covered  a  ball  broke  Loving's 
thigh  and  killed  his  mule.  As  the  mule  pitched  over 
dead,  providentially  he  fell  on  the  bank  of  a  buffalo- 
wallow  —  a  circular  depression  in  the  prairie  two  or 
three  feet  deep  and  eight  or  ten  feet  in  diameter, 
made  by  buffalo  wallowing  in  a  muddy  pool  during 
the  rains. 

Instantly  Jim  sprang  to  the  ground,  gave  his  bri- 
dle to  Loving,  who  lay  helpless  under  his  horse,  and 
turned  and  poured  a  stream  of  lead  out  of  his  Henry 
rifle  that  bowled  over  two  Comanches,  knocked  down 
one  horse,  and  stopped  the  charge. 

While  the  Indians  temporarily  drew  back  out  of 
range,  Jim  pulled  Loving  from  beneath  his  fallen 
mule,  and,  using  his  neckerchief,  applied  a  tourni- 
quet to  the  wounded  leg  which  abated  the  hemorrhage, 
and  then  placed  him  in  as  easy  a  position  as  possible 
within  the  shelter  of  the  wallow,  and  behind  the  fallen 
carcass  of  the  mule.  Then  Jim  led  his  own  horse  to 
the  opposite  bank  of  the  wallow,  drew  his  bowie  knife 
and  cut  the  poor  beast's  throat:  they  were  in  for  a 
fight  to  the  death,  and,  outnumbered  twenty  to  one, 
must  have  breastworks.  As  the  horse  fell  on  the  low 
bank  and  Jim  dropped  down  behind  him,  Loving 
called  out  cheerily : 

"Reckon  we're  all  right  now,  Jim,  and  cam  down 

[16] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

half  o'  them  before  they  get  us.  Hell!  Here  they 
come  again!" 

A  brief  "  Bet  yer  life,  ole  man.  We'll  make  'em  set- 
tle now,"  was  the  only  reply. 

Stripped  naked  to  their  waist-cloths  and  mocca- 
sins, with  faces  painted  black  and  bronze,  bodies 
striped  with  vermilion,  with  curling  buffalo  horns 
and  streaming  eagle  feathers  for  their  war  bonnets, 
no  warriors  ever  presented  a  more  ferocious  appear- 
ance than  these  charging  Comanches.  Their  horses, 
too,  were  naked  except  for  the  bridle  and  a  hair  rope 
loosely  knotted  round  the  barrel  over  the  withers. 

On  they  came  at  top  speed  until  within  range,  when 
with  that  wonderful  dexterity  no  other  race  has  quite 
equalled,  each  pushed  his  bent  right  knee  into  the 
slack  of  the  hair  rope,  seized  bridle  and  horse's  mane 
in  the  left  hand,  curled  his  left  heel  tightly  into  the 
horse's  flank,  and  dropped  down  on  the  animal's  right 
side,  leaving  only  a  hand  and  a  foot  in  view  from  the 
left.  Then,  breaking  the  line  of  their  charge,  the 
whole  band  began  to  race  round  Loving's  entrench- 
ment in  single  file,  firing  beneath  their  horses'  necks 
and  gradually  drawing  nearer  as  they  circled. 

Loving  and  Jim  wasted  no  lead.  Lying  low  behind 
their  breastworks  until  the  enemy  were  well  within 
range,  they  opened  a  fire  that  knocked  over  six  horses 
and  wounded  three  Indians.  Balls  and  arrows  were 
flying  all  about  them,  but,  well  sheltered,  they  re- 
[17] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

mained  untouched.  The  fire  was  too  hot  for  the  Co- 
manches  and  they  again  withdrew. 

Twice  again  during  the  day  the  Indians  tried  the 
same  tactics  with  no  better  result.  Later  they  tried 
sharpshooting  at  long  range,  to  which  Loving  and 
Jim  did  not  even  reply.  At  last,  late  in  the  afternoon, 
they  resorted  to  the  desperate  measure  of  a  direct 
charge,  hoping  to  ride  over  and  shoot  down  the  two 
white  men.  Up  they  came  at  a  dead  run  five  or  six 
abreast,  the  front  rank  firing  as  they  ran.  But,  badly 
exposed  in  their  own  persons,  the  fire  from  the  buffalo- 
wallow  made  such  havoc  in  their  front  ranks  that  the 
savage  column  swerved,  broke,  and  retreated. 

Night  shut  down.  Loving  and  Jim  ate  the  few  bis- 
cuits they  had  baked  and  some  raw  bacon.  Then  they 
counselled  with  one  another.  Their  thirst  was  so 
great,  it  was  agreed  they  must  have  water  at  any 
cost.  They  knew  the  Indians  were  unlikely  to  attempt 
another  attack  until  dawn,  and  so  they  decided  to  at- 
tempt to  reach  the  stream  shortly  after  midnight. 
Although  it  was  scarcely  more  than  fifteen  hundred 
yards,  that  was  a  terrible  journey  for  Loving.  Com- 
pelled to  crawl  noiselessly  to  avoid  alarming  the 
enemy,  Jim  could  give  him  little  assistance.  But  going 
slowly,  dragging  his  shattered  leg  behind  him  without 
a  murmur,  Loving  followed  Jim,  and  they  reached  the 
river  safely  and  drank. 

It  was  now  necessary  to  find  new  cover.  For  long 
[18] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

distances  the  banks  of  the  Pecos  are  nearly  perpen- 
dicular, and  ten  to  twenty  feet  high.  At  flood  the 
swift  current  cuts  deep  holes  and  recesses  in  these 
banks.  Prowling  along  the  margin  of  the  stream, 
Jim  found  one  of  these  recesses  wide  enough  to  hold 
them  both,  and  deep  enough  to  afford  good  defence 
against  a  fire  from  the  opposite  shore.  Above  them 
the  bank  rose  straight  for  twenty  feet.  Thus  they 
could  not  be  attacked  by  firing,  except  from  the  other 
side  of  the  river ;  and  while  the  stream  was  only  thirty 
yards  wide,  the  opposite  bank  afforded  no  shelter  for 
the  enemy. 

In  the  gray  dawn  the  Indians  crept  in  on  the  first 
entrenchment  and  sprang  inside  the  breastworks  with 
upraised  weapons,  only  to  find  it  deserted.  However, 
the  trail  of  Loving's  dragging  leg  was  plain,  and  they 
followed  it  down  to  the  river,  where,  coming  unex- 
pectedly in  range  of  the  new  defences,  two  of  their 
number  were  killed  outright. 

Throughout  the  day  they  exhausted  every  device 
of  their  savage  cunning  to  dislodge  Loving,  but  with- 
out avail.  They  soon  found  the  opposite  bank  too 
exposed  and  dangerous  for  attack  from  that  direc- 
tion. Burning  brush  dropped  from  above  failed  to 
lodge  before  the  recess,  as  they  had  hoped  it  might. 
The  position  seemed  impregnable,  so  they  surrounded 
the  spot,  resolved  to  starve  the  white  men  out. 

Loving  and  Jim  had  leisure  to  discuss  their  situa- 

[19] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

tion.  Loving  was  losing  strength  from  his  wound. 
They  had  no  food  but  a  little  raw  bacon.  Without 
relief  they  must  inevitably  be  starved  out.  It  was 
therefore  agreed  that  Jim  should  try  to  reach  Good- 
night and  bring  aid.  It  was  a  forlorn  hope,  but  the 
only  one.  The  herds  must  be  at  least  sixty  miles  back 
down  the  trail.  Jim  was  reluctant  to  leave,  but  Lov- 
ing urged  it  as  the  only  chance. 

As  soon  as  it  was  dark,  Jim  removed  all  but  his 
underclothing,  hung  his  boots  round  his  neck,  slid 
softly  into  the  river,  and  floated  and  swam  down 
stream  for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  Then  he 
crept  out  on  the  bank.  On  the  way  he  had  lost  his 
boots,  which  more  than  doubled  the  difficulty  and 
hardship  of  his  journey.  Still  he  struck  bravely  out 
for  the  trail,  through  cactus  and  over  stones.  He 
travelled  all  night,  rested  a  few  hours  in  the  morning, 
resumed  his  tramp  in  the  afternoon,  and  continued  it 
well-nigh  through  the  second  night. 

Near  morning,  famished  and  weak,  with  feet  raw 
and  bleeding,  totally  unable  to  go  farther,  Jim  lay 
down  in  a  rocky  recess  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  trail,  and  went  to  sleep. 

It  chanced  that  the  two  outfits  lay  camped  scarcely 
a  mile  farther  down  the  trail.  At  dawn  they  were 
again  en  route,  and  both  passed  Jim  without  rousing 
or  discovering  him.  Then  a  strange  thing  happened. 

[20] 


The  figure  of  a  prostrate  man,  apparently  dead 


LOVING'S  BEND 

Three  or  four  horses  had  strayed  away  from  the 
"  horse  wrangler  "  during  the  night,  and  Jim's  brother 
Bill  was  left  behind  to  hunt  them.  Circling  for  their 
trail,  he  found  and  followed  it,  followed  it  until  it 
brought  him  almost  upon  the  figure  of  a  prostrate 
man,  nearly  naked,  bleeding,  and  apparently  dead. 
Dismounting  and  turning  the  body  over,  Bill  was 
startled  to  find  it  to  be  his  brother  Jim.  With  great 
difficulty  Jim  was  roused;  he  was  then  helped  to 
mount  Bill's  horse,  and  hurried  on  to  overtake  the 
outfit.  Coffee  and  a  little  food  revived  him  so  that 
he  could  tell  his  story. 

Neither  danger  nor  property  was  considered  where 
help  was  needed,  in  those  days.  Goodnight  instantly 
ordered  six  men  to  shift  saddles  to  their  strongest 
horses,  left  the  outfits  to  get  on  as  best  they  might, 
and  spurred  away  with  his  little  band  to  his  partner's 
relief. 

Loving  had  a  close  call  the  day  after  Jim  left.  The 
Comanches  had  other  plans  to  carry  out,  or  perhaps 
they  were  grown  impatient.  In  any  event,  they 
crossed  the  river  and  raced  up  and  down  the  bluff, 
firing  beneath  their  horses'  necks.  It  was  a  miracle 
Loving  was  not  hit;  but,  lying  low  and  watching  his 
chance,  he  returned  such  a  destructive  fire  that  the 
Comanches  were  forced  to  draw  off.  The  afternoon 
passed  without  alarm.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  re- 

[21] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

maining  Comanches  had  given  up  the  siege  as  too  dear 
a  bargain,  and  had  struck  off  southwest  toward 
Guadalupe  Peak. 

When  night  came,  Loving  grew  alarmed  over  his 
situation.  Jim  might  be  taken  and  killed.  Then  no 
chance  would  remain  for  him  where  he  lay.  He  must 
escape  through  the  Indians  and  try  to  reach  the  trail 
at  the  crossing  in  the  big  bend  four  miles  north.  Here 
his  own  outfits  might  reach  him  in  time.  Therefore, 
he  started  early  in  the  night,  dragged  himself  pain- 
fully up  the  bluff,  and  reached  the  plain.  He  might 
have  lain  down  by  the  trail  near  by;  but  supposing 
the  Comanches  still  about,  he  set  himself  the  task  of 
reaching  the  big  bend. 

Starving,  weak  from  loss  of  blood,  his  shattered 
thigh  compelling  him  to  crawl,  words  cannot  describe 
the  horror  of  this  journey.  But  he  succeeded.  Love 
of  life  carried  him  through.  And  so,  late  the  next 
afternoon,  the  afternoon  of  the  day  Goodnight  started 
to  his  relief,  Loving  reached  the  crossing,  lay  down 
beneath  a  mesquite  bush  near  the  trail,  and  fell  into 
a  swoon.  Ever  since,  this  spot  has  been  known  as 
Loving's  Bend.  It  is  half  a  mile  below  the  present 
town  of  Carlsbad. 

At  dusk  of  the  evening  on  which  Loving  reached 
the  ford,  a  large  party  of  Mexican  freighters,  trav- 
elling south  from  Fort  Sumner  to  Fort  Stockton,  ar- 
rived and  pitched  their  camp  near  where  he  lay.  But 
[22] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

Loving  did  not  hear  them.  He  was  far  into  the  dark 
valley  and  within  the  very  shadow  of  Death.  Help 
must  come  to  him;  he  could  not  go  to  it.  Luckily  it 
came. 

While  some  were  unharnessing  the  teams,  others 
went  out  to  fetch  firewood.  In  the  darkness  one  Mex- 
ican, thinking  he  saw  a  big  mesquite  root,  seized  it 
and  gave  a  tug.  It  was  Loving's  leg.  Startled  and 
frightened,  the  Mexican  yelled  to  his  mates : 

"  Que  vieneny  hombres!  Que  vienen  por  el  amor  de 
Dios!  Aqui  esta  un  muerto" 

Others  came  quickly,  but  it  was  not  a  dead  man 
they  found,  as  their  mate  had  called.  Dragged  from 
under  the  mesquite  and  carried  to  the  fire,  Loving 
was  found  still  breathing.  The  spark  of  life  was  very 
low,  however,  and  the  mescal  given  him  as  a  stimulant 
did  not  serve  to  rouse  him  from  his  stupor.  But  the 
next  morning,  rested  somewhat  from  his  terrible  hard- 
ships and  strengthened  by  more  mescal,  he  was  able 
to  take  some  food  and  tell  his  story.  The  Mexicans 
bathed  and  dressed  his  wound  as  well  as  they  could, 
and  promised  to  remain  in  camp  until  his  friends 
should  come  up. 

Before  noon  Goodnight  and  his  six  men  galloped 
in.  They  had  reached  his  entrenchment  that  morn- 
ing, guided  by  the  Indian  sign  around  about  it,  and 
had  discovered  and  followed  his  trail.  Goodnight 
hired  a  party  of  the  Mexicans  to  take  one  of 
[23] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

their  carretas  and  convey  Loving  through  to  Fort 
Sumner.  With  the  Fort  still  more  than  two  hundred 
miles  away,  there  was  small  hope  he  could  survive  the 
journey,  but  it  must  be  tried.  A  rude  hammock  was 
improvised  and  slung  beneath  the  canvas  cover  of  the 
carreta,  and,  placed  within  it,  Loving  was  made  as 
comfortable  as  possible.  After  a  nine  days'  forced 
march,  made  chiefly  by  night,  the  Mexicans  brought 
their  crazy  old  carreta  safely  into  the  post. 

While  with  rest  and  food  Loving  had  been  gaining 
in  strength,  the  heat  and  the  lack  of  proper  care -were 
telling  badly  on  his  wound.  Goodnight  had  returned 
to  the  outfits,  and,  after  staying  with  them  a  week, 
he  had  brought  them  through  as  far  as  the  Rio 
Penasco  without  further  mishap.  Then  placing  the 
two  herds  in  charge  of  the  Scott  brothers,  he  himself 
made  a  forced  ride  that  brought  him  into  Sumner 
only  one  day  behind  Loving. 

Goodnight  found  his  partner's  condition  critical. 
Gangrene  had  attacked  the  wound.  It  was  apparent 
that  nothing  but  amputation  of  the  wounded  leg  could 
save  him.  The  medical  officer  of  the  post  was  out 
with  a  scouting  cavalry  detail,  and  only  a  hospital 
steward  was  available  for  the  operation.  To  trust  the 
case  to  this  man's  inexperience  seemed  murder. 
Therefore,  Goodnight  decided  to  send  a  rider  through 
to  Las  Vegas,  the  nearest  point  where  a  surgeon  could 
be  obtained. 

[24] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

Here  arose  what  seemed  insuperable  difficulties. 
From  Fort  Sumner  to  Las  Vegas  the  distance  is  one 
hundred  and  thirty  miles.  Much  travelled  by  freight 
teams  carrying  government  supplies,  the  road  was 
infested  throughout  with  hostile  Navajos,  for  whom 
the  freight  trains  were  the  richest  spoils  they  could 
have.  Offer  what  he  would,  Goodnight  could  find  no 
one  at  the  Fort  bold  enough  to  ride  through  alone 
and  fetch  a  surgeon.  He  finally  raised  his  offer  to 
a  thousand  dollars  for  any  one  who  would  make  the 
trip.  It  was  a  great  prize,  but  the  danger  was 
greater  than  the  prize.  No  one  responded.  To  go  him- 
self was  impossible;  their  contract  must  be  fulfilled. 

At  this  juncture  a  hero  appeared.  His  name  was 
Scot  Moore.  Moore  was  the  contractor  then  furnish- 
ing wood  and  hay  to  the  post.  Coming  in  from  one  of 
his  camps  and  learning  of  the  dilemma,  himself  a 
friend  of  Loving,  he  instantly  went  to  Goodnight. 

"  Charlie,"  he  said,  "  why  in  the  world  did  you 
not  send  for  me  before  ?  Joe  shall  not  die  here  like  a 
dog  if  I  can  save  him.  I've  got  a  young  Kentucky 
saddle  mare  here  that's  the  fastest  thing  on  the  Pecos. 
I'll  be  in  Vegas  by  sun-up  to-morrow  morning,  and 
I'll  be  back  here  sometime  to-morrow  night  with  a 
doctor,  if  the  Navajos  don't  get  us.  Pay?  Pay  be 
damned.  I'm  doing  it  for  old  Joe ;  he'd  go  for  me  in 
a  minute.  If  I'm  not  back  by  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 

[25] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

night,  Charlie,  send  another  messenger  and  just  tell 
old  Joe  that  Scot  did  his  best." 

"It's  mighty  good  of  you,  Scot,"  replied  Good- 
night, "  I  never  will  forget  it,  nor  will  Joe.  You  know 
I'd  go  myself  if  I  could." 

"That's  all  right,  pardner,"  said  Scot.  "Just 
come  over  to  my  camp  a  spell  and  look  over  some 
papers  I  want  you  to  attend  to  if  I  don't  show  up." 

And  they  strolled  away.  Officers  and  other  by- 
standers shook  their  heads  sadly. 

"  Devilish  pity  old  Scot  had  to  come  in." 

"  Might  'a  known  nobody  could  hold  him  from  go- 
in'." 

"He'll  make  Vegas  all  right  in  a  night  run  if  the 
mare  don't  give  out,  but  God  help  him  when  he  starts 
back  with  a  doctor  in  a  wagon;  ain't  one  chance  in 
a  thousand  he'll  get  through." 

"  Well,  if  any  man  on  earth  can  make  it,  bet  your 
alee  Scot  will." 

These  were  some  of  the  comments.  Scot  Moore 
was  known  and  loved  from  Chihuahua  to  Fort  Lyon. 
One  of  the  biggest-hearted,  most  amiable  and  gener- 
ous of  men,  he  was  known  as  the  coolest  and  most 
utterly  fearless  in  a  country  where  few  men  were 
cowards. 

At  nightfall,  the  mare  well  fed  and  groomed  and 
lightly  saddled,  Scot  mounted,  bearing  no  arms  but 
his  two  pistols,  called  a  careless  "  Hast a  luego,  and- 

[26] 


LOVING'S  BEND 

gos  "  to  his  friends,  and  trotted  off  up  the  road.  For 
two  hours  he  jogged  along  easily  over  the  sandy 
stretches  beyond  the  Bosque  Redondo.  Then  getting 
out  on  firmer  ground,  the  mare  well  warmed,  he  gave 
her  the  rein  and  let  her  out  into  a  long,  low,  easy  lope 
that  scored  the  miles  off  famously.  And  so  he  swept 
on  throughout  the  night,  with  only  brief  halts  to  cool 
the  mare  and  give  her  a  mouthful  of  water,  through 
Puerta  de  Luna,  past  the  Canon  Pintado,  up  the  Rio 
Gallinas,  past  sleeping  freighters'  camps  and  Mex- 
ican placitas.  Twice  he  was  fired  upon  by  alarmed 
campers  who  mistook  him  for  a  savage  marauder,  but 
luckily  the  shots  flew  wild. 

The  last  ten  miles  the  noble  mare  nearly  gave  out, 
but,  a  friend's  life  the  stake  he  was  riding  for,  Scot's 
quirt  and  spurs  lifted  her  through. 

Half  an  hour  after  sunrise,  before  many  in  the 
town  were  out  of  bed,  Scot  rode  into  the  plaza  of  Las 
Vegas  and  turned  out  the  doctor,  whom  he  knew. 

Dr.  D was  no  coward  by  any  means,  but  it 

took  all  Scot's  eloquence  and  persuasiveness  to  induce 
him  to  consent  to  hazard  a  daylight  journey  through 
to  Sumner,  for  he  well  knew  its  dangers.  Scarcely  a 
week  passed  without  news  of  some  fearful  massacre 
or  desperate  defence.  But,  stirred  by  Scot's  own 
heroism  or  perhaps  tempted  by  the  heavy  fee  to  be 
earned,  he  consented. 

Having  breakfasted  and  gotten  the  best  team  in 
[37] 


THE  BED-BLOODED 

town  hitched  to  a  light  buckboard,  Scot  and  the  doc- 
tor were  rolling  away  into  the  south  on  the  Sumner 
trail  before  seven  o'clock,  over  long  stretches  of  level 
grassy  mesa  and  past  tall  black  volcanic  buttes. 

Driving  on  without  interruption  or  incident, 
shortly  after  noon  they  approached  the  head  of  the 
Arroyo  de  los  Enteros,  down  which  the  trail  de- 
scended to  the  lower  levels  of  the  great  Pecos  Valley. 
Enteros  Canon  is  about  three  miles  long,  rarely  more 
than  two  hundred  yards  wide,  its  sides  rocky,  precip- 
itous, and  heavily  timbered,  through  which  wound  the 
wagon  trail,  exposed  at  every  point  to  a  perfect  am- 
buscade. It  was  the  most  dreaded  stretch  of  the 
Vegas-Sumner  road,  but  Scot  and  the  doctor  drew 
near  it  without  a  misgiving,  for  no  sign  of  the  savage 
enemy  had  they  seen. 

Just  before  reaching  the  head  of  the  canon,  the 
road  wound  round  a  high  butte.  Bowling  rapidly 
along,  Scot  half  dozing  with  fatigue,  the  doctor,  un- 
used to  the  plains,  alert  and  watchful,  they  suddenly 
turned  the  hill  and  came  out  upon  the  immediate  head 
of  the  canon,  when  suddenly  the  doctor  cried,  seizing 
Scot's  arm: 

"Good  God,  Scot,  look!     For  God's  sake,  look!'5 

And  it  was  time.  There  on  either  hand,  to  their 
right  and  to  their  left,  tied  by  their  lariats  to  droop- 
ing pinon  bough,  stood  fifty  or  sixty  Navajo  ponies. 
The  ponies  were  bridled  and  saddled.  Upon  some  were 

[28] 


LO VI NO'S  BEND 

tied  lances  and  on  others  arms.  All  were  dripping 
with  sweat  and  heaving  of  flank,  their  knife-marked 
ears  drooping  with  fatigue ;  not  more  than  five  min- 
utes could  have  elapsed  since  their  murderous  riders 
had  left  them.  Apparently  it  was  an  ambush  laid 
for  them,  and  they  were  already  surrounded.  Even 
the  cool  Scot  shook  himself  in  surprise  to  find  that 
he  was  still  alive. 

Overcome  with  terror,  the  doctor  cried:  "Turn, 
Scot !  Turn,  for  Heaven's  sake !  It 's  our  only  chance 
to  pull  for  Vegas." 

But  Scot  had  been  reflecting.  With  wits  sharpened 
by  a  thousand  perils  and  trained  in  scores  of  desper- 
ate encounters,  he  answered:  "Doc,  you're  wrong; 
dead  wrong.  We're  safe  as  if  we  were  in  Fort  Union. 
If  they  were  laying  for  us  we'd  be  dead  now.  No, 
they  are  after  bigger  game.  They  have  sighted  a  big 
freight  outfit  coming  up  from  the  Pecos,  and  are  lay- 
ing for  that  in  the  canon.  We  can  slide  through 
without  seeing  a  buck  or  hearing  a  shot.  We'll  go 
right  on  down  Enteros,  old  boy." 

"  Scot,  you're  crazy,"  said  the  doctor.  "  I  will 
not  go  a  step.  Let's  run  for  Vegas.  Any  instant  we 
may  be  attacked.  Why,  damn  your  fool  soul,  they've 
no  doubt  got  a  bead  on  us  this  minute." 

With  a  sharp  stroke  of  his  whro,  Scot  started  the 
team  into  a  smart  trot  down  into  the  canon.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  doctor  and  quietly  answered :  "  Doc, 
[29] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

you  seem  to  forget  that  Joe  Loving  is  dying,  and  that 
I  promised  to  fetch  you.  Reckon  you'll  have  to  go ! " 
And  down  they  went  into  what  seemed  the  very  jaws 
of  death. 

But  Scot  was  right.  It  was  a  triumph  of  logic. 
The  Navajos  were  indeed  lying  for  bigger  game. 

And  so  it  happened  that,  come  safely  through  the 
canon,  out  two  miles  on  the  plain  they  met  a  train  of 
eight  freight  teams  travelling  toward  Vegas.  They 
stopped  and  gave  the  freighters  warning,  told  what 
they  had  seen,  begged  them  to  halt  and  corral  their 
wagons.  But  it  was  no  use.  The  freighters  thought 
themselves  strong  enough  to  repel  any  attack,  and 
drove  on  into  the  canon. 

None  of  them  came  out. 

And  to  this  day  the  traveller  through  Enteros  may 
see  pathetic  evidence  of  their  foolhardiness  in  a  scat- 
tered lot  of  weather-worn  and  rusted  wheel  tires  and 
hub  bands. 

Before  midnight  Scot  and  the  doctor  reached  Sum- 
ner,  having  changed  teams  twice  at  Mexican  placitas. 
Covering  two  hundred  and  sixty  miles  in  less  than 
thirty  hours,  Scot  Moore  had  kept  his  word !  Unhap- 
pily, however,  Joe  Loving  had  become  so  weak  that 
he  died  under  the  shock  of  the  operation. 

Now  Scot  Moore  himself  is  dead  and  gone,  but  the 
memory  of  his  heroic  ride  should  live  as  long  as  noble 
deeds  are  sung. 

T301 


CHAPTER  H 


THE  recent  death  of  Shanghai  Rhett,  at  Llano, 
Texas,  makes  another  hole  in  the  rapidly 
thinning  ranks  of  the  pioneer  Texas  cow- 
hunters.  Cow-hunting  in  early  days  was  the  industry 
upon  which  many  of  the  greatest  fortunes  of  the  State 
were  founded,  and  from  it  sprang  the  great  cattle- 
ranch  industry  that  between  the  years  1866  and  1885 
converted  into  gold  the  rich  wild  grasses  of  the  ten- 
antless  plains  and  mountains  of  Texas,  New  Mexico, 
the  Indian  Territory,  Kansas,  Nebraska,  Colorado, 
Wyoming,  Dakota,  and  Montana. 

The  economic  value  of  this  great  industrial  move- 
ment in  promoting  the  settlement  and  development  of 
that  vast  region  of  the  West  lying  between  the  ninety- 
eighth  and  one  hundred  and  twentieth  meridians,  and 
embracing  half  the  total  area  of  the  United  States,  is 
comprehended  by  few  who  were  not  personally  famil- 
iar with  the  conditions  of  its  rise  and  progress.  There 
can  be  no  question  that  the  ranch  industry  hastened 
the  occupation  and  settlement  of  the  Plains  by  at 
least  thirty  years.  Farming  in  those  wilds  was  then 
an  impossibility.  Remote  from  railways,  unmapped, 
[81] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

and  untrod  by  white  men,  it  was  under  the  sway  of 
hostile  Indians,  before  whose  attacks  isolated  farming 
settlements,  with  houses  widely  scattered,  would  have 
been  defenceless, — alike  in  their  position  and  in  their 
inexperience  in  Indian  warfare.  Then,  moreover, 
there  was  neither  a  market  nor  means  of  transporta- 
tion for  the  farmer's  product.  All  these  conditions 
the  Texas  cow-hunters  changed,  and  they  did  it  in 
little  more  than  a  decade. 

In  Texas  were  bred  the  leaders  and  the  rank  and 
file  of  that  great  army  of  cow-hunters  whose  destiny 
it  was  to  become  the  pioneers  of  this  vast  region.  Pis- 
tol and  knife  were  the  treasured  toys  of  their  child- 
hood; they  were  inured  to  danger  and  to  hardship; 
they  were  expert  horsemen,  trained  Indian-fighters, 
reckless  of  life  but  cool  in  its  defence ;  and  thus  they 
were  an  ideal  class  for  the  pacification  of  the  Plains. 

Shanghai  Rhett's  death  removed  one  of  the  com- 
paratively few  survivors  of  this  most  interesting  and 
eventful  past. 

In  Texas  after  the  war,  when  Shang  was  young,  a 
pony,  a  lariat,  a  six-shooter,  and  a  branding  iron 
were  sufficient  instruments  for  the  acquisition  of 
wealth.  A  trained  eye  and  a  practised  hand  were  nec- 
essary for  the  effective  use  of  pistol  and  lariat;  the 
running  iron  anybody  could  wield;  therefore,  while 
a  necessary  feature  of  equipment,  the  iron  was  a  sec- 
ondary affair.  The  pistol  was  useful  in  settling  an- 
[32] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

noying  questions  of  title ;  the  horse  and  the  lariat,  in 
taking  possession  after  title  was  settled;  the  iron,  in 
marking  the  property  with  a  symbol  of  ownership. 
The  property  in  question  was  always  cattle. 

Before  the  war,  cattle  were  abundant  in  Texas. 
Fences  were  few.  Therefore,  the  cattle  roamed  at  will 
over  hill  and  plain.  To  determine  ownership  each 
owner  adopted  a  distinctive  "  mark  and  brand."  The 
owner's  mark  and  brand  were  put  upon  the  young  be- 
fore they  left  their  mothers,  and  upon  grown  cattle 
when  purchases  were  made.  Thus  the  broad  sides  and 
quarters  of  those  that  changed  hands  many  times  were 
covered  over  with  this  barbarous  record  of  their 
various  transfers. 

The  system  of  marking  and  branding  had  its  origin 
among  the  Mexicans.  Marking  consists  in  cutting  the 
ears  or  some  part  of  the  animal's  hide  in  such  a  way 
as  to  leave  a  permanent  distinguishing  mark.  One 
owner  would  adopt  the  "swallow  fork,"  a  V-shaped 
piece  cut  out  of  the  tip  of  the  ear;  another,  the 
*'  crop, "  the  tip  of  the  ear  cut  squarely  off ;  another, 
the  "under-half  crop,"  the  under  half  of  the  tip  of 
the  ear  cut  away ;  another,  the  "  over-half  crop,"  the 
reverse  of  the  last ;  another,  the  "  under-bit,"  a  round 
nick  cut  in  the  lower  edge  of  the  ear;  another,  the 
"  over-bit,"  the  reverse  of  the  last ;  another,  the  "  un- 
der-slope,"  the  under  half  of  the  ear  removed  by  cut- 
ting diagonally  upward;  another,  the  "over-slope," 
[33] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

the  reverse  of  the  last ;  another,  the  "  grub,"  the  ear 
cut  off  close  to  the  head;  another,  the  "wattle,"  a 
strip  of  the  hide  an  inch  wide  and  two  or  three  inches 
long,  either  on  forehead,  shoulder,  or  quarters, 
skinned  and  left  hanging  by  one  end,  where  before 
healing  it  leaves  a  conspicuous  lump;  another,  the 
"dewlap,"  three  or  four  inches  of  the  loose  skin  un- 
der the  throat  skinned  down  and  left  hanging. 

Branding  consists  in  applying  a  red-hot  iron  to  any 
part  of  the  animal  for  six  or  eight  seconds,  until  the 
hide  is  seared.  Properly  done,  hair  never  again 
grows  on  the  seared  surface  and  the  animal  is 
"branded  for  life."  A  small  five-inch  brand  on  a 
young  calf  becomes  a  great  twelve-to-eighteen-inch 
mark  by  the  time  the  beast  is  fully  grown. 

In  Mexico  the  art  of  branding  dates  back  to  the 
time  when  few  men  were  lettered  and  most  men  used  a 
rubrica  mark  or  flourish  instead  of  a  written  signa- 
ture. Thus,  in  Mexico  the  brand  is  always  a  device, 
whatever  complex  combination  of  lines  and  circles  the 
whim  of  the  owner  may  conceive.  In  this  country  the 
brand  was  usually  a  combination  of  letters  or  numer- 
als, though  sometimes  shapes  and  forms  are  repre- 
sented. Branding  and  marking  cattle  and  horses  is 
certainly  a  most  cruel  practice,  but  under  the  old 
conditions  of  the  open  range,  where  individual  owner- 
ships numbered  thousands  of  head,  no  other  means 
existed  of  contradistinguishing  title. 
[34] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

During  the  war  these  vast  herds  grew  and  in- 
creased unattended,  neglected  by  owners,  who  were  in 
the  field  with  the  armies  of  the  Confederacy.  So  it 
happened  that  hundreds  of  thousands  of  cattle 
ranged  the  plains  of  Texas  after  the  war,  unmarked 
and  unbranded,  wild  as  the  native  game,  to  which  no 
man  could  establish  title.  This  situation  afforded  an 
opportunity  which  the  hard-riding  and  desperate  men 
who  found  themselves  stranded  on  this  far  frontier 
after  the  wreck  of  the  Confederacy  were  quick  to 
seize.  Shang  Rhett  was  one  of  them.  From  chasing 
Federal  soldiers  they  turned  to  chasing  unbranded 
steers,  and  found  the  latter  occupation  no  less  excit- 
ing and  much  more  profitable  than  the  former. 

First,  bands  of  free  companions  rode  together  and 
pooled  their  gains.  Then  the  thrift  of  some  and  the 
improvidence  of  others  set  in  motion  the  immutable 
laws  of  distribution.  Soon  a  class  of  rich  and  power- 
ful individual  owners  was  created,  who  employed 
great  outfits  of  ten  to  fifty  men  each,  splendidly 
mounted  and  armed.  These  outfits  were  in  continually 
moving  camps,  and  travelled  light,  without  wagons  or 
tents.  The  climate  being  mild  even  in  winter,  seldom 
more  than  two  blankets  to  the  man  were  carried  for 
bedding.  The  cooking  paraphernalia  were  equally 
simple,  at  the  most  consisting  of  a  coffee  pot,  a 
frying-pan,  a  stew  kettle,  and  a  Dutch  oven.  Each 
man  carried  a  tin  cup  tied  to  his  saddle.  Plates, 
[35] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

knives,  and  forks  were  considered  unnecessary  luxu- 
ries, as  every  man  wore  a  bowie  knife  at  his  belt,  and 
was  dexterous  in  using  his  slice  of  bread  as  a  plate  to 
hold  whatever  delicacy  the  frying-pan  or  kettle  might 
contain.  Sometimes  even  the  Dutch  oven  was  dis- 
pensed with,  and  bread  was  baked  by  winding  thin 
rolls  of  dough  round  a  stick  and  planting  the  stick 
in  the  ground,  inclined  over  a  bed  of  live  coals.  Often 
the  frying-pan  was  left  behind,  and  the  meat  roasted 
on  a  stick  over  the  fire ;  and  no  meat  in  the  world  was 
ever  so  delicious  as  a  good  fat  side  of  ribs  so  roasted. 

The  wild,  unbranded  cattle  were  everywhere  —  in 
the  cross-timbers  of  the  Palo  Pinto,  in  the  hills  and 
among  the  post  oaks  of  the  Concho  and  the  Llano, 
on  the  broad  savannas  of  the  Lower  Guadalupe  and 
the  Brazos,  in  the  plains  and  mesquite  thickets  of  the 
Nueces  and  the  Frio.  And  through  these  wild  regions, 
on  the  outer  fringe  of  settlement,  ranged  the  cow- 
hunters,  as  merry  and  happy  a  lot  as  ever  courted 
adventure,  careless  of  their  lives. 

Of  adventure  and  hazard  the  cow-hunters  had  quite 
enough  to  keep  the  blood  tingling.  They  had  to  deal 
with  wild  men  as  well  as  wild  cattle.  Comanches  and 
Kiowas,  the  old  lords  of  the  manor,  were  bitterly  dis- 
puting every  forward  movement  of  the  settler  along 
the  whole  frontier.  No  community,  from  Griffin  to 
San  Antonio,  escaped  their  attacks  and  depredations. 

[36] 


li 

!?     ft> 

83     "rj 

is- 

^  TO 

*"    3 

1  §- 
3  i 

I 


:  a 

o 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

Indeed,  these  incursions  were  regular  monthly  visita- 
tions, made  always  "in  the  light  of  the  moon."  A 
war  party  of  naked  bucks  on  naked  horses,  the  light- 
est and  most  dexterous  cavalry  in  the  world,  would 
slip  softly  near  some  isolated  ranch  or  lonely  camp  by 
night.  The  cleverest  and  cunningest  would  dismount 
and  steal  swiftly  in  upon  their  quarry.  Slender,  sin- 
ewy, bronze  figures  creeping  and  crouching  like 
panthers,  crafty  as  foxes,  fierce  and  merciless  as 
maddened  bulls,  their  presence  was  rarely  known  until 
the  blow  fell.  Sometimes  they  were  content  to  steal 
the  settlers'  horses,  and  by  daylight  be  many  miles 
away  to  the  west  or  north.  Sometimes  they  fired 
buildings  and  shot  down  the  inmates  as  they  ran  out. 
Sometimes  they  crept  silently  into  camps,  knifed  or 
tomahawked  one  or  more  of  the  sleepers,  and  stole 
away,  all  so  noiselessly  that  others  sleeping  near  were 
undisturbed.  Sometimes  they  lay  in  ambush  about  a 
camp  till  dawn,  and  then  with  mad  war-whoops 
charged  among  the  sleepers  with  their  deadly  arrows 
and  tomahawks. 

Against  these  wily  marauders  the  cow-hunters 
could  never  abate  their  guard.  And  it  was  these  same 
cow-hunters  the  Indians  most  dreaded,  for  they  were 
tireless  on  a  trail  and  utterly  reckless  in  attack.  It 
was  not  often  the  Indians  got  the  best  of  them,  and 
then  only  by  ambush  or  overwhelming  numbers.  Bet- 

[37] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ter  armed,  of  stouter  hearts  in  a  stand-up  fight,  little 
bands  of  these  cow-hunters  often  soundly  thrashed 
war  parties  outnumbering  them  ten  to  one. 

Then  it  not  infrequently  fell  out  that  collisions  oc-* 
curred  between  rival  outfits  of  cow-hunters,  disputes 
over  territory  or  cattle,  which  led  to  bitter  feuds 
not  settled  till  one  side  or  the  other  was  killed 
off  or  run  out  of  the  country.  Battles  royal  were 
fought  more  than  once  in  which  a  score  or  more  of 
men  were  killed,  wherein  the  casus  belli  was  a  differ- 
ence as  to  the  ownership  of  a  brindle  steer. 

These  men  were  a  law  unto  themselves.  Courts 
were  few  and  far  between  on  the  line  of  the  outer  set- 
tlements. Powder  and  lead  came  cheaper  than  at- 
torneys' fees,  and  were,  moreover,  found  to  be  more 
effective.  Thus  the  rifle  and  pistol  were  almost  invari- 
ably the  cow-hunters'  court  of  first  and  last  resort  for 
disputes  of  every  nature.  Except  in  rare  instances 
where  there  happened  to  be  survivors  among  the  fam- 
ilies of  the  original  plaintiff  and  defendant,  this  form 
of  litigation  was  never  prolonged  or  tiresome.  When 
there  were  any  survivors  the  case  was  sure  to  be  re- 
argued. 

Occasionally,  of  course,  in  the  immediate  settle- 
ments a  case  would  be  brought  to  formal  trial  before 
a  judge  and  jury.  While,  as  a  rule,  the  procedure 
of  these  courts  conformed  to  the  statutes  and  was  for- 
mal enough,  rather  startling  informalities  sometimes 
[38] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

characterized  their  sessions.  A  case  in  point,  of 
which  Shang  Rhett  was  the  hero,  occurred  at  Llano. 

At  that  time  the  town  of  Llano  could  boast  of  only 
one  building,  a  big  rough  stone  house,  loop-holed  for 
defence  against  the  Indians.  Under  this  one  roof  the 
enterprising  owner  assembled  a  variety  of  industries 
and  performed  a  variety  of  functions  that  would  dis- 
may the  most  versatile  man  of  any  older  community. 
Here  he  kept  a  general  store,  operated  blacksmith 
and  wheelwright  shops,  served  as  post-master,  ran  a 
hotel,  and  sat  as  justice  of  the  peace.  Indeed,  he  got 
so  much  in  the  habit  of  self-reliance  in  all  emergen- 
cies, that  in  more  than  one  instance  he  subjected  him- 
self to  some  criticism  by  calmly  sitting  as  both  judge 
and  jury  in  cases  wherein  he  had  no  jurisdiction.  Get- 
ting a  jury  at  Llano  was  no  easy  task.  Often  the 
country  for  miles  around  might  be  scoured  without 
producing  a  full  panel. 

Llano  being  the  county  seat,  and  this  the  only  house 
in  town,  it  somewhat  naturally  from  time  to  time  en- 
joyed temporary  distinction  as  a  court  house,  when 
at  long  intervals  the  Llano  County  court  met.  The 
accommodations,  however,  were  inconveniently  lim- 
ited —  so  limited  in  fact  that  on  one  occasion  at  least 
they  were  responsible  for  a  sad  miscarriage  of  justice. 

A  murder  trial  was  on.  One  of  the  earliest  settlers, 
a  man  well  known  and  generally  liked,  had  killed  a 
newcomer.  It  was  felt  that  he  had  given  his  victim  no 
[39] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

chance  for  his  life,  else  he  probably  would  not  have 
been  brought  to  trial  at  all.  And  even  in  spite  of  the 
prevailing  disapproval,  there  was  an  undercurrent 
of  sympathy  for  him  in  the  community. 

However,  court  met  and  the  case  was  called.  Sev- 
eral settlers  were  witnesses  in  the  case.  It  was,  there- 
fore, considered  a  remarkable  and  encouraging  evi- 
dence of  Llano  County's  growth  in  population  when 
the  District  Attorney  succeeded  in  raking  together 
enough  men  for  a  jury.  At  noon  of  the  second  day 
of  the  trial  the  evidence  was  all  in,  arguments  of  coun- 
sel finished,  and  the  case  given  to  the  jury.  The  pris- 
oner's case  seemed  hopeless.  A  clearly  premeditated 
murder  had  been  proved,  against  which  scarcely  any 
defence  was  produced. 

Judge,  jury,  prisoner,  and  witnesses  all  had  din- 
ner together  in  the  "  court  room,"  which  was  always 
demeaned  from  its  temporary  dignity  as  a  hall  of  jus- 
tice, to  the  humble  rank  of  a  dining-room  as  soon  as 
court  adjourned.  Directly  after  dinner  the  jury 
withdrew  for  deliberation,  in  custody  of  two  bailiffs. 

The  house  was  large,  to  be  sure,  but  its  capacity 
was  already  so  far  taxed  that  it  could  not  provide  a 
jury  room.  It  was  therefore  the  custom  of  the  bail- 
iffs to  use  as  a  jury  room  an  open,  mossy  glade 
shaded  by  a  great  live  oak  tree  on  the  farther  bank 
of  the  Llano,  and  distant  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
from  the  court  house.  Here,  therefore,  the  jury  were 
[40] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

conducted,  the  bailiffs  retired  to  some  distance,  and 
discussion  of  a  verdict  was  begun.  In  spite  of  the 
weight  of  evidence  against  him,  two  or  three  were  for 
acquittal.  The  others  said  they  were  "  damned  sorry ; 
Jim  was  a  mighty  good  feller,  but  it  'peared  like 
they  'd  have  to  foller  the  evidence."  So  the  discussion 
pro  and  con  ran  on  into  the  mid-afternoon  without 
result. 

It  was  an  intensely  hot  afternoon,  the  air  close  and 
heavy  with  humidity,  an  hour  when  all  Texans  who 
can  do  so  take  a  siesta.  Judge  and  counsel  were 
snoozing  peacefully  on  the  gallery  of  the  distant 
court  house,  and  the  two  bailiffs  guarding  the  "jury 
room,"  overcome  by  habit  and  the  heat,  were 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  ground,  snoring  in  con- 
cert. This  situation  made  the  opportunity  for  a 
friend  at  court.  Shang  Rhett  was  the  friend  await- 
ing this  opportunity.  Stepping  lightly  out  of  the 
brush  where  he  had  been  concealed,  a  few  paces 
brought  him  among  the  jurors. 

"Howdy!  boys?"  Shang  drawled.  "Pow'ful  hot 
evenin',  ain't  it?  Moseyin'  roun'  sort  o'  lonesome 
like,  I  thought  mebbe  so  you  fellers  'd  be  tired  o' 
talkin'  law,  an'  I'd  jes'  step  over  an'  pass  the  time  o' 
day  an'  give  you  a  rest." 

A  rude  diplomat,  perhaps,  Shang  was  nevertheless 
a  cunning  one.  Several  jurors  expressed  their  appre- 
ciation of  his  sympathy  and  one  answered :  "  Tired 

[41] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

o'  talkin'!  Wall,  I  reckon  so.  I'm  jes'  tireder  an' 
dryer  'n  if  I'd  been  tailin'  down  beef  steers  all  day. 
My  ol'  tongue's  been  a-floppin'  till  thar  ain't  nary 
'nother  flop  left  in  her  'nless  I  could  git  to  ile  her  up 
with  a  swaller  o'  red-eye,  an' — "  regretfully — "I 
reckon  thar  ain't  no  sort  o'  chanst  o'  that.  " 

"Thar  ain't,  hey?"  replied  Shang,  producing  a 
big  jug  from  the  brush  near  by.  "  'Pears  like,  'nless 
I  disremember,  thar's  some  red-eye  in  this  yere  jug." 

Upon  examination  the  jug  was  found  to  be  nearly 
full;  but,  passed  and  repassed  around  the  "jury 
room,"  it  was  not  long  before  the  jug  was  empty,  and 
the  jury  full. 

Shrewdly  seizing  the  proper  moment  before  the 
jurors  got  drunk  enough  to  be  obstinate  and  combat- 
ive, Shang  made  his  appeal.  "  Fellers, "  he  said,  "  I 
allows  you  all  knows  that  Jim's  my  friend,  an'  I 
reckon  you  cain't  say  but  what  he  's  been  a  mighty 
good  friend  to  more'n  one  o'  you.  Course,  I  know 
he  got  terrible  out  o'  luck  when  he  had  t'  kill  this  yer 
Arkinsaw  feller.  But  then,  boys,  Arkinsawyers  don't 
count  fer  much  nohow,  do  they?  Powful  onery,  no 
account  lot,  sca'cely  fit  to  practise  shootin'  at.  We 
fellers  ain't  a-goin'  to  lay  that  up  agin  Jim,  air  we? 
We  ain't  a-goin'  to  help  this  yer  j  ack-leg  prosecutin' 
attorney  send  ol'  Jim  up.  Why,  fellers,  we  knows 
well  enough  that  airy  one  o'  us  might  'a  done 
the  same  thing  ef  we  'd  been  out  o'  luck,  like  Jim  was, 
[42] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

in  meetin'  up  with  this  yer  Arkinsawyer  afore  we'd 
had  our  raornin5  coffee.  What  say,  boys?  Bein'  as 
how  any  o'  us  might  be  in  Jim's  boots  mos'  any  day, 
reckon  we'll  have  to  turn  him  loose  ?  " 

Shang's  pathetic  appeal  for  Jim's  life  clearly  won 
outright  more  than  half  the  jury,  but  there  were  sev- 
eral who,  while  their  sympathies  were  with  Jim, 
"'lowed  they'd  have  to  bring  a  verdic'  accordin'  to 
the  evidence. " 

"Verdic'?  Why,  fellers,"  retorted  Jim's  advocate, 
"whar's  the  use  of  a  fool  verdic'?  'Sposin'  we  fel- 
lers was  goin'  to  be  verdicked  ?  This  is  a  time  for  us 
fellers  to  stan'  together,  shua'.  I'll  tell  you  what  le's 
do;  le's  all  slip  off  inter  th'  brush,  cotch  our  hosses 
an'  pull  our  freight  fer  home.  This  yer  court  ain't 
goin'  to  git  airy  jury  but  us  in  Llano  'till  a  new  one's 
growed,  an'  if  we  skip  I  reckon  they'll  have  to  turn 
Jim  loose. " 

This  alternative  met  all  objections.  In  a  moment 
the  "jury  room"  was  empty. 

Shortly  thereafter  the  two  bailiffs,  awakened  by  a 
clatter  of  hoofs  over  the  rocky  hills  behind  them,  were 
doubly  shocked  to  find  the  only  tenant  of  the  "jury 
room"  an  empty  jug. 

One  of  the  bailiffs  sighted  some  of  the  escaping  ju- 
rors and  opened  fire ;  the  other  hastened  to  alarm  the 
court.  The  latter,  running  toward  the  house,  met 
the  judge  and  counsel  who  had  been  roused  by  the 
[43] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

firing,  and  yelled  out:  "  Jedge,  the  hull  jury's  stam- 
peded! Bill's  winged  two  o'  them.  Gi'  me  a  fast 
hoss  an'  a  lariat  an'  mebbe  so  I'll  cotch  some 
more. " 

Two  or  three  jurors  who  were  too  much  fuddled 
with  drink  to  saddle  and  mount  were  quickly  cap- 
tured. The  rest  escaped.  Of  course,  the  court  was 
outraged  and  indignant,  but  it  was  powerless.  So 
Jim  was  released,  thanks  to  Shang's  diplomacy  and 
eloquence.  And,  by  the  way,  in  the  dark  days  that 
came  to  ranchmen  in  1885,  Jim,  risen  to  be  a  well- 
known  and  powerful  banker  in City,  furnished 

the  ready  money  necessary  to  save  Shang's  imperilled 
fortune ;  and  when  at  length  he  heard  that  Shang  was 
at  death's  door,  Jim  found  the  time  to  leave  his  large 

affairs  and  come  all  the  way  up  from to  Llano 

to  bid  his  old  friend  farewell. 

For  two  or  three  years  after  the  war  the  cow- 
hunters  were  busy  accumulating  cattle.  From  Palo 
Pinto  to  San  Diego  great  outfits  were  working  inces- 
santly, scouring  the  wilds  for  unbranded  cattle. 

Directly  an  animal  was  sighted,  one  or  two  of  these 
mad  riders  would  spur  in  pursuit,  rope  him  by  horns 
or  legs,  and  throw  him  to  the  ground.  Then  dismount- 
ing and  springing  nimbly  upon  the  prostrate  beast, 
they  quickly  fastened  the  beast's  feet  with  a  "hog- 
tie"  hitch  so  that  he  could  not  rise,  a  fire  was  built, 
the  short  saddle  iron  heated,  and  the  beast  branded. 
[44] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

The  feet  were  then  unbound  and  the  cow-hunter  made 
a  flying  leap  into  his  saddle,  and  spurred  away  to  es- 
cape the  infuriated  charge  sure  to  be  delivered  by  his 
maddened  victim. 

In  this  work  horses  were  often  fatally  gored  and 
not  a  few  men  lost  their  lives.  Notwithstanding  the 
fact  that  it  was  such  a  downright  desperate  task,  the 
men  became  so  expert  that  they  did  not  even  hesitate 
to  tackle,  alone  and  single-handed,  great  bulls  of 
twice  the  weight  of  their  small  ponies;  they  roped, 
held,  threw,  and  branded  them.  The  least  accident 
or  mistake,  a  slip  of  the  foot,  a  stumble  by  one's 
horse,  a  breaking  cinch,  a  failure  to  maintain  full  ten- 
sion on  the  lariat,  slowness  in  dismounting  to  tie  an 
animal  or  in  mounting  after  it  was  untied  —  any  one 
of  these  things  happening  meant  death,  unless  the 
cow-hunter  could  save  himself  with  a  quick  and  ac- 
curate shot.  Indeed  the  boys  so  loved  this  work  and 
were  so  proud  of  their  skill,  that  when  an  unusually 
vicious  old  "  moss-back  "  was  encountered,  each  strove 
to  be  the  first  to  catch  and  master  him.  And  God 
knows  they  should  have  loved  it,  as  must  any  man 
with  real  red  blood  coursing  through  his  veins,  for  it 
was  not  work ;  I  libel  it  to  call  it  work ;  it  was  rather 
sport,  and  the  most  glorious  sport  in  the  world.  Rid- 
ing to  hounds  over  the  stiffest  country,  or  hunting 
grizzly  in  juniper  thickets,  is  tame  beside  cow-hunt- 
ing in  tfie  old  days. 

[45] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

The  happiest  period  of  my  life  was  my  first  five 
years  on  the  range  in  the  early  seventies.  Indeed  it 
was  a  period  so  happy  that  memory  plays  me  a 
shabby  trick  to  recall  its  incidents  and  fire  me  with 
longings  for  pleasures  I  may  never  again  experience. 
Its  scenes  are  all  before  me  now,  vivid  as  if  of  yes- 
terday. 

The  night  camp  is  made  beside  a  singing  stream  or 
a  bubbling  spring;  the  night  horses  are  caught  and 
staked ;  there  is  a  roaring,  merry  fire  of  fragrant  ce- 
dar boughs;  a  side  of  fat  ribs  is  roasting  on  a  spit 
before  the  fire,  its  sweet  juices  hissing  as  they  drop 
into  the  flames,  and  sending  off  odors  to  drive  one 
ravenous;  the  rich  amber  contents  of  the  coffee  pot 
is  so  full  of  life  and  strength  that  it  is  well-nigh 
bursting  the  lid  with  joy  over  the  vitality  and  stim- 
ulus it  is  to  bring  you.  Supper  eaten,  there  follow 
pipe  and  cigarette,  jest  and  badinage  over  the  day's 
events ;  stories  and  songs  of  love,  of  home,  of  mother ; 
and  rude  impromptu  epics  relating  the  story  of  vic- 
tories over  vicious  horses,  wild  beasts,  or  savage  In- 
dians. When  the  fire  has  burnt  low  and  become  a 
mass  of  glowing  coals,  voices  are  hushed,  the  camp  is 
still,  and  each,  half  hypnotized  by  gazing  into  the 
weirdly  shifting  lights  of  the  dying  embers,  is 
wrapped  in  introspection.  Then,  rousing,  you  lie 
down,  your  canopy  the  dark  blue  vault  of  the  heav- 
ens, your  mattress  the  soft,  curling  buffalo  grass. 
[46] 


m 


•v'v 


The  great  loop  of  your  lariat  circling  and  hissing  about  your  head  v 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

After  a  night  of  deep  refreshing  sleep  you  spring  at 
dawn  with  every  faculty  renewed  and  tense.  Break- 
fast eaten,  you  catch  a  favorite  roping-horse, 
square  and  heavy  of  shoulder  and  quarter,  short  of 
back,  with  wide  nervous  nostrils,  flashing  eyes,  ears 
pointing  to  the  slightest  sound,  pasterns  supple  and 
strong  as  steel,  and  of  a  nerve  and  temper  always  re- 
minding you  that  you  are  his  master  only  by  suffer- 
ance. Now  begins  the  day's  hunt.  Riding  softly 
through  cedar  brake  or  mesquite  thicket,  slipping 
quickly  from  one  live  oak  to  another,  you  come  upon 
your  quarry,  some  great  tawny  yellow  monster  with 
sharp-pointed,  wide-spreading  horns,  standing  start- 
led and  rigid,  gazing  at  you  with  eyes  wide  with  cu- 
riosity, uncertain  whether  to  attack  or  fly.  Usually 
he  at  first  turns  and  runs,  and  you  dash  after  him 
through  timber  or  over  plain,  the  great  loop  of  your 
lariat  circling  and  hissing  about  your  head,  the  noble 
horse  between  your  knees  straining  every  muscle  in 
pursuit,  until,  come  to  fit  distance,  the  loop  is  cast. 
It  settles  and  tightens  round  the  monster's  horns,  and 
your  horse  stops  and  braces  himself  to  the  shock  that 
may  either  throw  the  quarry  or  cast  horse  and  rider 
to  the  ground,  helpless,  at  his  mercy.  Once  he  is 
caught,  woe  to  you  if  you  cannot  master  and  tie  him, 
for  a  struggle  is  on,  a  struggle  of  dexterity  and  intel- 
ligence against  brute  strength  and  fierce  temper,  that 
cannot  end  till  beast  or  man  is  vanquished ! 
[47] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Thus  were  the  great  herds  accumulated  in  Texas 
after  the  war.  But  cattle  were  so  abundant  that  their 
local  value  was  trifling.  Markets  had  to  be  sought. 
The  only  outlets  were  the  mining  camps  and  Indian 
agencies  of  the  Northwest,  and  the  railway  construc- 
tion camps  then  pushing  west  from  the  Missouri 
River.  So  the  Texans  gathered  their  cattle  into 
herds  of  two  thousand  to  three  thousand  head  each, 
and  struck  north  across  the  trackless  Plains.  Indeed 
this  movement  reached  such  proportions  that,  except- 
ing in  a  few  narrow  mining  belts,  there  is  scarcely  one 
of  the  greater  cities  and  towns  between  the  ninety- 
eighth  and  one  hundred  and  twentieth  meridians 
which  did  not  have  its  origin  as  a  supply  point  for 
these  nomads.  Figures  will  emphasize  the  magnitude 
of  the  movement.  The  cattle-drive  northward  from 
Texas  between  the  years  1866  and  1885  was  approxi- 
mately as  follows: 

1866 260,000           1877 201,000 

1867 35,000           1878 265,649 

1868 75,000           1879 257,927 

1869 350,000           1880 394,784 

1870 350,000           1881 250,000 

1871... 600,000           1882 250,000 

1872 350,000           1883 265,000 

1873 404,000            1884 416,000 

1874 166,000           1885 350,000 

1875 151,618 

1876 321,998           Total 5,713,976 

[48] 


A  COW-HUNTERS'  COURT 

The  range  business  on  a  large  and  profitable  scale 
was  long  since  practically  done  and  ended.  In  Texas 
there  remain  very  few  open  ranges  capable  of  turning 
off  fair  grass  beef.  With  the  good  lands  farmed  and 
the  poor  lands  exhausted,  the  ranges  have  become 
narrower  every  year ;  and  every  year  the  cost  of  get- 
ting fat  grass  steers  has  been  eating  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  rangeman's  pocket.  Of  course,  there 
are  still  isolated  ranges  where  the  rangemen  still  hang 
on,  but  they  are  not  many,  and  most  of  them  must 
soon  fall  easy  prey  to  the  ploughshare. 

When  the  rangeman  was  forced  to  lease  land  in 
Texas,  or  buy  water  fronts  in  the  Territories  and 
build  fences,  his  fate  was  soon  sealed.  With  these 
conditions,  he  soon  found  that  the  sooner  he  reduced 
his  numbers,  improved  his  breed,  and  went  on  tame 
feed,  the  better.  A  corn  shock  is  now  a  more  profita- 
ble close  herder  than  any  cow-puncher  who  ever  wore 
spurs.  This  is  a  sad  thing  for  an  ola  rangeman  to 
contemplate,  but  it  is  nevertheless  the  simple  truth. 
Soon  the  merry  crack  of  the  six-shooter  will  no  more 
be  heard  in  the  land,  its  wild  and  woolly  manipulator 
being  driven  across  the  last  divide,  with  faint  show 
of  resistance,  by  an  unassuming  granger  and  his  all- 
conquering  hoe. 

The  rangeman,  like  many  another  in  the  past,  has 
served  his  purpose  and  survived  his  usefulness.  His 
work  is  practically  done,  and  few  realize  what  a  noble 
[49] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

work  it  has  been,  or  what  its  cost  in  hardship  and 
danger. 

I  refer,  of  course,  not  alone  to  the  development  of 
a  great  industry,  which  in  its  time  has  added  millions 
to  the  material  wealth  of  the  country,  but  to  its  col- 
lateral results  and  influence.  But  for  the  venture- 
some rangeman  and  his  rifle,  millions  of  acres,  from 
the  Gulf  in  the  South  to  Bow  River  in  the  far  Cana- 
dian Northwest,  now  constituting  the  peaceful,  pros- 
perous homes  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  thrifty 
farmers,  would  have  remained  for  many  years  longer 
what  it  had  been  from  the  beginning  —  a  hunting  and 
battle  ground  for  Indians,  and  a  safe  retreat  for  wild 
game. 

What  was  the  hardship,  and  what  the  personal  risk 
with  which  this  great  pioneer  work  was  accomplished, 
few  know  except  those  who  had  a  hand  in  it,  and  they, 
as  a  rule,  were  modest  men  who  thought  little  of  what 
they  did,  and  now  that  it  is  done,  say  less. 


[50] 


CHAPTER  HI 

A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

SOME  think  it  fair  to  give  a  man  warnin'  you 
intend  to  kill  him  on  sight,  an'  then  get  right 
down  to  business  as  soon  as  you  meet.     But 
that  ain't  no  equal  chance  for  both.     The  man  that 
sees  his  enemy  first  has  the  advantage,  for  the  other  is 
sure  to  be  more  or  less  rattled. 

u  Others  consider  it  a  square  deal  to  stan'  back  to 
back  with  drawn  pistols,  to  walk  five  paces  apart  an' 
then  swing  and  shoot.  But  even  this  way  is  open  to 
objections.  While  both  may  be  equally  brave  an'  de- 
termined, one  may  be  blamed  nervous,  like,  an'  excita- 
ble, while  the  other  is  cool  and  deliberate ;  one  may  be 
a  better  shot  than  the  other,  or  one  may  have  bad 
eyes. 

"  I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  none  o'  these  deals  are  fair ; 
they  are  murderous.  If  you  want  to  kill  a  man  in  a 
neat  an'  gentlemanly  way  that  will  give  both  a  per- 
fectly equal  show  for  life,  let  both  be  put  in  a  narrow 
hole  in  the  ground  that  they  can't  git  out  of,  their  left 
arms  securely  tied  together,  their  right  hands  holdin' 
bowie  knives,  an'  let  them  cut,  an'  cut  an'  cut  till  one 
is  down. " 

[51] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

His  heavy  brow  contracted  into  a  fierce  frown ;  his 
black  eyes  narrowed  and  glittered  balefully ;  his  surg- 
ing blood  reddened  the  bronzed  cheeks. 

"Let  them  cut,  I  say,  cut  to  a  finish.  That's 
fightin',  an'  fightin'  dead  fair.  Ah!"  and  the  hard 
lines  of  the  scarred  face  softened  into  a  look  of  infinite 
longing  and  regret,  "  if  only  I  could  find  another  man 
with  nerve  enough  to  fight  me  that  way ! " 

The  speaker  was  Mr.  Clay  Allison,  formerly  of 
Cimarron,  later  domiciled  at  Pope's  Crossing.  His 
listeners  were  cowboys.  The  scene  was  a  round-up 
camp  on  the  banks  of  the  Pecos  River  near  the  mouth 
of  Rocky  Arroyo.  Mr.  Allison  was  not  dilating  upon 
a  theory.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  eminently  a  man 
of  practice,  especially  in  the  matters  of  which  he  was 
speaking.  Indeed  he  was  probably  the  most  expert 
taker  of  human  life  that  ever  heightened  the  prevail- 
ing dull  colors  of  a  frontier  community.  Early  in 
his  career  the  impression  became  general  that  his 
favorite  tint  was  crimson. 

And  yet  Mr.  Allison  was  in  no  sense  an  assassin. 
1  never  knew  him  to  kill  a  man  whom  the  community 
could  not  very  well  spare.  While  engaged  as  a  ranch- 
man in  raising  cattle,  he  found  more  agreeable  occu- 
pation for  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  thinning  out 
the  social  weeds  that  are  apt  to  grow  quite  too  lux- 
uriantly for  the  general  good  in  new  Western  settle- 
ments. His  work  was  not  done  as  an  officer  of  the  law 
[52] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

either.  It  was  rather  a  self-imposed  task,  in  which 
he  performed,  at  least  to  his  own  satisfaction,  the 
double  functions  of  judge  and  executioner.  And  in 
the  unwritten  code  governing  his  decisions  all  offences 
had  a  common  penalty  —  death. 

Mr.  Allison  was  born  with  a  passion  for  fighting, 
and  he  indulged  the  passion  until  it  became  a  mania. 
The  louder  the  bullets  whistled,  the  redder  the  gleam- 
ing blades  grew,  the  more  he  loved  it. 

Yet  no  knight  of  old  that  rode  with  King  Arthur 
was  ever  a  more  chivalrous  enemy.  He  hated  a  foul 
blow  as  much  as  many  of  his  contemporaries  loved 
"to  get  the  drop,"  which  meant  taking  your  oppo- 
nent unawares  and  at  hopeless  disadvantage.  In  fact 
in  most  cases  he  actually  carried  a  chivalry  so  far  as 
to  warn  the  doomed  man,  a  week  or  two  in  advance, 
of  the  precise  day  and  hour  when  he  might  expect  to 
die.  And  as  Mr.  Allison  was  known  to  be  most  scru- 
pulous in  standing  to  his  word,  and  as  the  victim  knew 
there  was  no  chance  of  a  reprieve,  this  gave  him 
plenty  of  time  to  settle  up  his  affairs  and  to  prepare 
to  cross  the  last  divide.  Thus  the  estates  of  gentle- 
men who  happened  to  incur  Mr.  Allison's  disap- 
proval were  usually  left  in  excellent  condition  and 
gave  little  trouble  to  the  probate  courts. 

Of  course  the  gentlemen  receiving  these  warnings 
were  under  no  obligations  to  await  Mr.  Allison's 
pleasure.  Some  suddenly  discovered  that  they  had 
[53] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

imperative  business  in  other  and  remote  parts  of  the 
country.  Others  were  so  anxious  to  save  him  unnec- 
essary trouble  that  they  frequented  trails  he  was 
known  to  travel,  and  lay  sometimes  for  hours  and 
days  awaiting  him,  making  themselves  as  comfortable 
as  possible  in  the  meantime  behind  some  convenient 
boulder  or  tall  nopal,  or  in  the  shady  recesses  of  a 
mesquite  thicket.  But  they  might  as  well  have  saved 
all  this  bother,  for  the  result  was  the  same.  Mr.  Alli- 
son could  always  spare  the  time  to  journey  even  from 
New  Mexico  to  Montana  where  it  was  necessary  to  the 
fulfilment  of  a  promise  to  do  so. 

To  those  who  were  impatient  and  sought  him  out 
in  advance,  he  was  ever  obliging  and  proved  ready  to 
meet  them  where  and  when  and  how  they  pleased.  It 
was  all  the  same  to  him.  To  avoid  annoying  legal 
complications,  he  was  known  to  have  more  than  once 
deliberately  given  his  opponent  the  first  shot. 

In  the  early  eighties  a  band  of  horse  rustlers  were 
playing  great  havoc  among  the  saddle  stock  in  north- 
eastern New  Mexico.  It  was  chiefly  through  Mr.  Alli- 
son's industry  and  accurate  marksmanship  that  their 
numbers  were  reduced  below  a  convenient  working 
majority.  The  leader  vowed  vengeance  on  Allison. 
One  day  they  met  unexpectedly  in  the  stage  ranch  at 
the  crossing  of  the  Cimarron. 

Mr.  Allison  invited  the  rustler  to  take  a  drink.  The 
invitation  was  accepted.  It  was  remarked  by  the  by- 
[54] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

standers  that  while  they  were  drinking  neither  seemed 
to  take  any  especial  interest  in  the  brazen  pictures 
that  constituted  a  feature  of  the  Cimarron  bar  and 
were  the  pride  of  its  proprietor.  The  next  manoeuvre 
in  the  game  was  a  proposition  by  Mr.  Allison  that 
they  retire  to  the  dining-room  and  have  some  oysters. 
Unable  to  plead  any  other  engagement  to  dine,  the 
rustler  accepted.  As  they  sat  down  at  table,  both 
agreed  that  their  pistols  felt  heavy  about  their  waists, 
and  each  drew  his  weapon  from  the  scabbard  and  laid 
it  on  his  knees. 

While  the  Cimarron  ranch  was  noted  for  the  best 
cooking  on  the  trail,  other  gentlemen  at  dinner  seemed 
oddly  indifferent  to  its  delicacies,  nervously  gulped 
down  a  few  mouthfuls  and  then  slipped  quietly  out 
of  the  room,  leaving  loaded  plates. 

Presently  Mr.  Allison  dropped  a  fork  on  the  floor 
—  perhaps  by  accident  —  and  bent  as  if  to  pick  it  up. 
An  opening  in  his  enemy's  guard  the  rustler  could 
not  resist:  he  grabbed  the  pistol  lying  in  his  lap  and 
raised  it  quickly,  but  in  doing  so  he  struck  the  muzzle 
beneath  the  edge  of  the  table,  causing  an  instant's 
delay.  It  was,  however,  enough ;  Allison  had  pitched 
sideways  to  the  floor,  and,  firing  beneath  the  table, 
converted  a  bad  rustler  into  a  good  one. 

Dodge  City  used  to  be  one  of  the  hottest  places  on 
the  Texas  trail.  It  was  full  of  thugs  and  desperadoes 
of  the  worst  sort,  come  to  prey  upon  the  hundreds  of 
[55] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

cowboys  who  were  paid  off  there.  This  money  had 
to  be  kept  in  Dodge  at  any  cost.  Usually  the  boys 
were  easy  game.  What  money  the  saloons  failed  to 
get  was  generally  gambled  off  against  brace  games 
of  faro  or  monte.  And  those  who  would  neither  drink 
nor  play  were  waylaid,  knocked  down,  and  robbed. 

On  one  occasion  when  the  Hunter  and  Evans  "  Jin- 
glebob"  outfits  were  in  town,  they  objected  to  some 
of  these  enforced  levies  as  unreasonably  heavy.  A 
pitched  battle  on  the  streets  resulted.  Many  of  the 
boys  were  young  and  inexperienced,  and  they  were 
getting  quite  the  worst  of  it,  when  Clay  Allison  hap- 
pened along  and  took  a  hand. 

The  fight  did  not  last  much  longer.  When  it  was 
over,  it  was  discovered  that  several  of  Dodge's  most 
active  citizens  had  been  removed  from  their  field  of 
usefulness.  For  the  next  day  or  two,  "Boot  Hill" 
(the  local  graveyard)  was  a  scene  of  unusual  activity. 

From  all  this  it  fell  out  that  a  few  days  later  when 
Clay  Allison  rode  alone  out  of  Dodge  returning  home, 
he  was  ambushed  a  few  miles  from  town  by  three  men 
and  shot  from  his  horse.  Crippled  too  badly  to  re- 
sist, he  lay  as  if  dead.  Thinking  their  work  well  done, 
the  three  men  came  out  of  hiding,  kicked  and  cursed 
him,  shot  two  or  three  more  holes  in  him,  and  rode 
back  to  town.  But  Allison,  who  had  not  even  lost 
consciousness,  had  recognized  them.  A  few  hours 
later  the  driver  of  a  passing  wagon  found  him  and 
[56] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

hauled  him  into  town.  After  lingering  many  weeks 
between  life  and  death,  Allison  recovered.  As  soon 
as  they  heard  that  he  was  convalescing,  the  three  who 
had  attacked  him  wound  up  their  affairs  and  fled  the 
town. 

When  able  to  travel  Allison  sold  his  ranch.  Ques- 
tioned by  his  friends  as  to  his  plans,  he  finally  ad- 
mitted that  he  felt  it  a  duty  to  hunt  down  the  men  who 
had  ambushed  him;  remarked  that  he  feared  they 
might  bushwhack  some  one  else  if  they  were  not  re- 
moved. 

Number  One  of  the  three  men  he  located  in  Chey- 
enne, Wyoming.  Cheyenne  was  then  a  law-abiding 
community,  and  Allison  could  not  afford  to  take  any 
chances  of  court  complications  that  would  interfere 
with  the  completion  of  his  work.  He  therefore  spent 
several  days  in  covertly  watching  the  habits  of  his 
adversary.  From  the  knowledge  thus  gained  he  was 
able  one  morning  suddenly  to  turn  a  street  corner  and 
confront  Number  One.  Without  the  least  suspicion 
that  Allison  was  in  the  country,  the  man,  knowing 
that  his  life  hung  by  a  thread,  jerked  his  pistol  and 
fired  on  the  instant.  As  Allison  had  shrewdly  calcu- 
lated, his  enemy  was  so  nervous  that  his  shot  flew  wild. 
Number  One  did  not  get  a  second  shot.  At  the  in- 
quest several  witnesses  of  the  affray  swore  that  Alli- 
son did  not  even  draw  until  after  the  other  had  fired. 

Several  weeks  later  Number  Two  was  found  in 
[57] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Tombstone,  Arizona,  a  town  of  the  good  old  frontier 
sort  that  had  little  use  for  coroners  and  juries,  so  the 
fighting  was  half  fair.  Half  an  hour  after  landing 
from  the  stage-coach,  Allison  encountered  his  man  in 
a  gambling-house.  Number  Two  remained  in  Tomb- 
stone—  permanently  —  while  Mr.  Allison  resumed 
his  travels  by  the  evening  coach. 

The  hunt  for  Number  Three  lasted  several  months. 
Allison  followed  him  relentlessly  from  place  to  place 
through  half  a  dozen  States  and  Territories,  until  he 
was  located  on  a  ranch  near  Spearfish,  Dakota. 

They  met  at  last,  one  afternoon,  within  the  shadow 
of  the  Devil's  Tower.  In  the  duel  that  ensued,  Alli- 
son's horse  was  killed  under  him.  This  occasioned 
him  no  particular  inconvenience,  however,  for  he 
found  that  Number  Three's  horse,  after  having  a  few 
hours'  rest,  was  able  to  carry  him  into  Deadwood, 
where  he  caught  the  Sidney  stage. 

With  this  task  finished,  Mr.  Allison  was  able  to  re- 
turn to  commercial  pursuits.  He  settled  at  Pope's 
Crossing  on  the  Pecos  River,  in  New  Mexico,  bought 
cattle,  and  stocked  the  adjacent  range.  Pecos  City, 
the  nearest  town,  lay  fifty  miles  to  the  south. 

Started  as  a  "  front  camp "  during  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Texas  Pacific  Railway  in  1880,  for  five 
or  six  years  Pecos  contrived  to  rock  along  without 
any  of  the  elaborate  municipal  machinery  deemed  es- 
sential to  the  government  and  safety  of  urban  com- 
[58] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

munities  in  the  effete  East.  It  had  neither  council, 
mayor,  nor  peace  officer.  An  early  experiment  in 
government  was  discouraging. 

In  1883  the  Texas  Pacific  station-agent  was  elected 
mayor.  His  name  was  Ewing,  a  little  man  with  fierce 
whiskers  and  mild  blue  eyes.  Two  nights  after  the 
election  a  gang  of  boys  from  the  "  Hash  Knife  "  out- 
fit were  in  town;  fearing  circumscription  of  some  of 
their  privileges,  the  election  did  not  have  their  ap- 
proval. Gleaming  out  of  the  darkness  fifty  yards 
away  from  the  Lone  Wolf  Saloon,  the  light  of  Mayor 
Ewing's  office  window  offered  a  most  tempting  target. 
What  followed  was  very  natural  —  in  Pecos. 

The  Mayor  was  sitting  at  his  table  receiving  train 
orders,  when  suddenly  a  bullet  smashed  the  telegraph 
key  beside  his  hand  and  other  balls  whistled  through 
the  room  bearing  him  a  message  he  had  no  trouble  in 
reading.  Rushing  out  into  the  darkness,  he  spent  the 
night  in  the  brush,  and  toward  morning  boarded  an 
east-bound  freight  train.  Mayor  Ewing  had  ab- 
dicated. The  railway  company  soon  obtained  an- 
other station-agent,  but  it  was  some  years  before  the 
town  got  another  mayor. 

On  Pecos  carnival  nights  like  this,  when  some  of  the 
cowboys  were  in  town,  prudent  people  used  to  sleep 
on  the  floor  of  Van  Slyke's  store  with  bags  of  grain 
piled  round  their  blankets  two  tiers  deep,  for  no  Pecos 
house  walls  were  more  than  inch  boards. 
[59] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

At  this  early  period  of  its  history  the  few  wander- 
ing advance  agents  of  the  Gospel  who  occasionally 
visited  Pecos  were  not  well  received.  They  were  not 
abused;  they  were  simply  ignored.  When  not  other- 
wise occupied,  the  average  Pecosite  had  too  much 
whittling  on  hand  to  find  time  to  "  'tend  meetin' " ;  of 
this  every  pine  drygoods  box  in  the  town  bore  mute 
evidence,  its  fair  sides  covered  with  innumerable  rude 
carvings  cut  by  aimless  hands. 

This  prevailing  indifference  to  religion  shocked  Mr. 
Allison.  As  opportunity  offered  he  tried  to  remedy  it, 
and  as  far  as  his  evangelical  work  went  it  was  success- 
ful. One  Tuesday  morning  about  ten  o'clock  he 
walked  into  the  Lone  Wolf  Saloon,  laid  two  pistols  on 
the  end  of  the  bar  next  the  front  door,  and  remarked 
to  Red  Dick,  the  bartender,  that  he  intended  to  turn 
the  saloon  into  a  church  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  did 
not  want  any  drinks  sold  or  cards  thrown  during  the 
services. 

Taking  his  stand  just  within  the  doorway,  pistol 
in  hand,  Mr.  Allison  began  to  assemble  his  congrega- 
tion. The  first  comer  was  Billy  Jansen,  the  leading 
merchant  of  the  town.  As  he  was  passing  the  door 
Clay  remarked: 

"  Good-mornin',  Mr.  Jansen,  won't  you  please  step 
inside?  Religious  services  will  be  held  here  shortly 
an9  I  reckon  you  '11  be  useful  in  the  choir. " 

The  only  reply  to  Billy's  protest  of  urgent  business 
[60] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

was  a  gesture  that  made  Billy  think  going  to  church 
would  be  the  greatest  pleasure  he  could  have  that 
morning. 

Mr.  Allison  never  played  favorites  at  any  game, 
and  so  all  passers  were  stopped:  merchants,  railway 
men,  gamblers,  thugs,  cowboys,  freighters  —  all  were 
stopped  and  made  to  enter  the  saloon.  The  least  fur- 
tive movement  to  draw  a  gun  or  to  approach  the  back 
door  received  prompt  attention  from  the  impromptu 
evangelist  that  quickly  restored  order  in  the  congre- 
gation. When  fifty  or  sixty  men  had  been  brought 
into  this  improvised  fold,  Mr.  Allison  qlosed  the  door 
and  faced  about. 

"  Fellers, "  he  said,  "  this  meetin'  bein'  held  on  the 
Pecos,  I  reckon  we'll  open  her  by  singin'  *  Shall  We 
Gather  at  the  River? '  Of  course  we're  already  gath- 
ered, but  the  song  sort  o'  fits.  No  gammon  now,  fel- 
lers ;  everybody  sings  that  knows  her. " 

The  result  was  discouraging.  Few  in  the  audience 
knew  any  hymn,  much  less  this  one.  Only  three  or 
four,  managed  to  hoarsely  drawl  through  two  verses. 

The  hymn  finished  —  as  far  as  anybody  could  sing 
it  —  Mr.  Allison  said: 

"  Now,  fellers,  we'll  pray.     Everybody  down ! " 

Only  a  few  knelt.  Among  the  congregation  were 
some  who  regarded  the  affair  as  sacrilegious,  and 
others  of  the  independent  frontier  type  were  unac- 
customed to  dictation.  However,  a  slight  narrowing 
[61] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

of  the  cold  black  eyes  and  a  significant  sweep  of  the 
six-shooter  brought  every  man  of  them  to  his  knees, 
with  heads  bowed  over  faro  lay-outs  and  on  monte 
tables. 

"O  Lord!"  began  Allison,  "this  yere's  a  mighty 
bad  neck  o'  woods,  an'  I  reckon  You  know  it.  Fellers 
don'  think  enough  o'  their  souls  to  build  a  church,  an' 
when  a  pa'son  comes  here  they  don'  treat  him  half 
white.  O  Lord !  make  these  fellers  see  that  when  they 
gits  caught  in  the  final  round-up  an'  drove  over  the 
last  divide,  they  don'  stan'  no  sort  o'  show  to  git  to 
stay  on  the  heavenly  ranch  'nless  they  believes  an' 
builds  a  house  to  pray  an'  preach  in.  Right  here  I 
subscribes  a  hundred  dollars  to  build  a  church,  an'  if 
airy  one  o'  these  yere  fellers  don'  ante  up  accordin' 
to  his  means,  O  Lord,  make  it  Your  pers'n'l  business 
to  see  that  he  wears  the  Devil's  brand  and  ear  mark 
an'  never  gits  another  drop  o'  good  spring  water. 

"Of  course,  I  allow  You  knows  I  don'  sport  no 
wings  myself,  but  I  want  to  do  what 's  right  ef  You  '11 
sort  o'  give  me  a  shove  the  proper  way.  An'  one  thing 
I  want  You  to  understand' ;  Clay  Allison 's  got  a  fast 
horse  an'  is  tol'able  handy  with  his  rope,  and  he's 
goin'  to  run  these  fellers  into  Your  corral  even  if  he 
has  to  rope  an'  drag  'em  there.  Amen.  Everybody 
git  up!" 

While  he  prayed  in  the  most  reverent  tone  he  could 
command,  and  while  his  attitude  was  one  of  simple 
[62] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

supplication,  Mr.  Allison  never  removed  his  keen  eyes 
from  the  congregation. 

"  Reckon  we  '11  sing  again,  boys,  an'  I  want  a  little 
more  of  it.  Le's  see  what  you-all  knows.  " 

At  length  six  or  eight  rather  sheepishly  owned  to 
knowing  "Old  Hundred,"  and  it  was  sung. 

Then  the  sermon  was  in  order. 

"  Fellers, "  he  began,  "  my  ole  mammy  used  to  tell 
me  that  the  only  show  to  shake  the  devil  off  your  trail 
was  to  believe  everythin'  the  Bible  says.  What  yer 
mammy  tells  you  's  bound  to  be  right,  dead  right,  so  I 
think  I  '11  take  the  sentiment  o'  this  yere  round-up  on 
believin'.  O'  course,  as  a  square  man  I'm  boun'  to 
admit  the  Bible  tells  some  pow'ful  queer  tales,  onlike 
anythin'  we-'uns  strikes  now  days.  Take  that  tale 
about  a  fish  swallerin'  a  feller  named  Jonah;  why,  a 
fish  't  could  swaller  a  man  'od  have  to  be  as  big  in 
the  barrel  as  the  Pecos  River  is  wide  an'  have  an 
openin'  in  his  face  bigger'n  Phantom  Lake  Cave.  No- 
body on  the  Pecos  ever  see  such  a  fish.  But  I  wish 
you  fellers  to  distinctly  under stan'  it 's  a  fact.  I  be- 
lieves it.  Does  you  ?  Every  feller  that  believes  a  fish 
swallered  Jonah,  hold  up  his  right  hand ! " 

It  is  sad  to  have  to  admit  that  only  two  or  three 
hands  were  raised. 

"Well,  I'll  be  durned,"  the  evangelist  continued, 
"  you  air  tough  cases.  That's  what's  the  matter  with 
you ;  you  are  shy  on  faith.  You  fellers  has  got  to  be 
[63] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

saved,  an'  to  be  saved  you  got  to  believe,  an'  believe 
hard,  an'  I  'm  agoin'  to  make  you.  Now  hear  me,  an' 
mind  you  don'  forget  it's  Clay  Allison  talkin'  to  you: 
I  tells  you  that  when  that  thar  fish  had  done  swallerin' 
Jonah,  he  swum  aroun'  fer  a  hull  hour  lookin'  to  see 
if  thar  was  a  show  to  pick  up  any  o'  Jonah's  family 
or  friends.  Now  what  I  tells  you  I  reckon  you  're  all 
bound  to  believe.  Every  feller  that  believes  that 
Jonah  was  jes'  only  a  sort  of  a  snack  fer  the  fish,  hold 
up  his  right  hand ;  an'  if  any  feller  don'  believe  it,  this 
yere  ol'  gun  o'  mine  will  finish  the  argiment. " 

Further  exhortation  was  unnecessary;  all  hands 
went  up. 

And  so  the  sermon  ran  on  for  an  hour,  a  crude 
homily  full  of  rude  metaphor,  with  little  of  sentiment 
or  pleading,  severely  didactic,  mandatory  as  if  spoken 
in  a  dungeon  of  the  Inquisition.  When  Red  Dick 
passed  the  hat  among  the  congregation  for  a  subscrip- 
tion to  build  a  church,  the  contribution  was  general 
and  generous.  Many  who  early  in  the  meeting  were 
full  of  rage  over  the  restraint,  and  vowing  to  them- 
selves to  kill  Allison  the  first  good  chance  they  got, 
finished  by  thinking  he  meant  all  right  and  had  taken 
about  the  only  practicable  means  "  to  git  the  boys  to 
'tend  meetin'. " 

In  the  town  of  Toyah,  twenty  miles  west  of  Pecos, 
a  gentleman  named  Jep  Clayton  set  the  local  spring 
styles  in  six-shooters  and  bowie  knives,  and  settled  tha 
[64] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

hash  of  anybody  who  ventured  to  question  them.  A 
reckless  bully,  he  ruled  the  town  as  if  he  owned  it. 

One  day  John  McCullough,  Allison's  brother-in- 
law  and  ranch  foreman,  had  business  in  Toyah. 
Clayton  had  heard  of  Allison  but  knew  little  about 
him.  Drunk  and  quarrelsome,  he  hunted  up  McCul- 
lough, called  him  every  abusive  name  he  could  think 
of  before  a  crowd,  and  then  suggested  that  if  he  did 
not  like  it  he  might  send  over  his  brother-in-law  Alli- 
son, who  was  said  to  be  a  gun  fighter.  A  mild  and 
peaceable  man  himself,  McCullough  avoided  a  diffi- 
culty and  returned  to  Pecos. 

Two  days  later  a  lone  horseman  rode  into  Toyah, 
stopped  at  Youngblood's  store,  tied  his  horse,  and 
went  in.  Approaching  the  group  of  loafers  curled 
up  on  boxes  at  the  rear  of  the  store,  he  inquired : 

"  Can  any  of  you  gentlemen  tell  me  if  a  gentleman 
named  Clayton,  Jep  Clayton,  is  in  town,  an'  where  I 
can  find  him  ?  " 

They  replied  that  he  had  been  in  the  store  an  hour 
before  and  was  probably  near  by. 

As  the  lone  horseman  walked  out  of  the  door,  one  of 
the  loungers  remarked: 

"I  believe  that's  Clay  Allison,  an'  ef  it  is  it's  all 
up  with  Jep. " 

He  slipped  out  and  gave  Jep  warning,  told  him 
Allison  was  in  town,  that  he  had  known  him  years 
before,  and  that  Jep  had  better  quit  town  or  say  his 
[65] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

prayers.  Concluding,  he  said,  "You  done  barked 
UP  the  wrong  tree  this  time,  sure. " 

Allison  went  on  from  one  saloon  to  another,  at  each 
making  the  same  polite  inquiry  for  Mr.  Clayton's 
whereabouts.  At  last,  out  on  the  street  Allison  met 
a  party  of  eight  men,  a  crowd  Clayton  had  gathered, 
and  repeated  his  inquiry.  A  man  stepped  out  of  the 
group  and  said:  "My  name's  Clayton,  an'  I  reckon 
yours  is  Allison.  Look  here,  Mr.  Allison,  this  is  all  a 
mistake.  I " 

"Why,  what's  a  mistake?  Didn't  you  meet  Mr. 
McCullough  the  other  day?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  n't  you  abuse  him  shamefully  ?  " 

"Well,  yes,  but " 

"  Did  n't  you  send  me  an  invite  to  come  over  here  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,  I  did,  but  it  was  a  mistake,  Mr.  Allison ; 
I  was  drunk.  It  was  whiskey  talkin';  nothin'  more. 
I  'm  terrible  sorry.  It  was  jes'  whiskey  talk.  " 

" Whiskey  talk,  was  it?  Well,  Mr.  Clayton,  le's 
*tep  in  the  saloon  here  and  get  some  whiskey  an'  see  if 
it  won't  set  you  goin'  again.  I  believe  I'd  enjoy  hear- 
in'  jes'  a  few  words  o'  your  whiskey  talk.  " 

They  entered  a  saloon.  For  an  hour  Clayton  was 
plied  with  whiskey,  taunted  and  jeered  until  those  who 
had  admired  him  slunk  away  in  disgust,  and  those 
who  had  feared  him  laughed  in  enjoyment  of  his  hu- 

[66] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

miliation.     But  no  amoant  of  whiskey  could  rouse 
him  that  day. 

Allison's  scarred,  impassive  face,  low,  quiet  tones, 
and  glittering  black  eyes  held  him  cowed.  The  ter- 
ror of  Toyah  had  found  his  master,  and  knew  it. 

At  last,  in  utter  disgust,  Allison  concluded: 

"Mr.  Clayton,  your  invitation  brought  me  twenty 
miles  to  meet  a  gun  fighter.  I  find  you  such  a  cur 
that  if  ever  we  meet  again  I  '11  lash  you  into  strips  with 
a  bull  whip. " 

A  month  later  Mr.  Clayton  was  killed  by  his  own 
brother-in-law,  Grant  Tinnin,  one  of  the  quiet  good 
men  of  the  country,  who  never  failed  to  score  in  any 
real  emergency. 

"  I  wonder  how  it  will  all  end ! "  Allison  used  often 
to  remark  while  lying  idly  staring  into  the  camp-fire. 
"  Of  course  I  know  I  can 't  keep  up  this  sort  o'  thing ; 
some  one's  sure  to  get  me.  An  I'd  jes'  give  anything 
in  the  world  to  know  how  I'm  goin'  to  die  —  by  pistol 
or  knife. " 

It  turned  out  that  Fate  had  decreed  other  means 
for  his  removal. 

One  day  Allison  and  his  brother-in-law  John  Mc- 
Cullough  had  a  serious  quarrel.  Allison  left  the 
ranch  and  rode  into  town  to  think  it  over.  In  his  later 
years  killing  had  become  such  a  mania  with  him  that 
his  best  friend  could  never  feel  entirely  safe  against 

[67] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

his  deadly  temper ;  the  least  difference  might  provoke 
a  collision.  McCullough  was  therefore  not  greatly 
surprised  to  get  a  letter  from  Allison  a  few  days  later, 
sent  out  by  special  messenger,  telling  him  that  Allison 
would  reach  the  ranch  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the 
next  day  and  would  kill  him  on  sight. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day  Allison 
left  town  in  a  covered  hack.  He  had  been  drink- 
ing heavily  and  had  whiskey  with  him.  About  half- 
way between  town  and  the  ranch  he  overtook  George 
Larramore,  a  freighter,  seated  out  in  the  sun  on  top 
of  his  heavy  load. 

"Hello,  George!"  called  Allison;  "mighty  hot  up 
there,  ain't  it?" 

"  Howd'y,  Mr.  Allison.  I  don'  mind  the  heat ;  I  'm 
used  to  it,"  answered  Larramore. 

"  George, "  called  Allison,  after  driving  on  a  short 
distance,  "  'pears  to  me  the  good  things  o'  this  world 
ain't  equally  divided.  I  don't  see  why  you  should  sit 
up  there  roasting  in  the  sun  an'  me  down  here  in  the 
shade  o'  the  hack.  We  '11  jes'  even  things  a  little  right 
here.  You  crawl  down  off  that  load  an'  jump  into  the 
hack  an'  I  '11  get  up  there  an'  drive  your  team." 

"Pow'ful  good  o'  you,  Mr.  Allison,  but " 

"Crawl  down,  I  say,  George,  it's  Clay  tellin' 
you!" 

And  the  change  was  made  without  further  delay. 

Five  miles  farther  up  the  road  John  McCullough 
[68] 


A  SELF-CONSTITUTED  EXECUTIONER 

and  two  friends  lay  in  ambush  all  that  day  and  far 
into  the  night,  with  ready  Winchesters,  awaiting  Alli- 
son. But  he  never  came. 

Shortly  after  taking  his  seat  on  top  of  the  high 
load  in  the  broiling  sun,  plodding  slowly  along  in  the 
dust  and  heat,  Allison  was  nodding  drowsily,  when 
suddenly  a  protruding  mesquite  root  gave  the  wagon 
a  sharp  jolt  that  plunged  Clay  headlong  into  the  road, 
where,  before  he  could  rise,  the  great  wheels  crunched 
across  his  neck. 


1 69] 


CHAPTER  IV 

TEIGGERFINGEEITIS* 

ON  the  Plains  thirty  years  ago  there  were  two 
types  of  man-killers;  and  these  two  types 
were  subdivided  into  classes. 

The  first  type  numbered  all  who  took  life  in  con- 
travention of  law.  This  type  was  divided  into  three 
classes:  A,  Outlaws  to  whom  blood-letting  had  be- 
come a  mania;  B,  Outlaws  who  killed  in  defence  of 
their  spoils  or  liberty;  C,  Otherwise  good  men  who 
had  slain  in  the  heat  of  private  quarrel,  and  either 
"  gone  on  the  scout "  or  "  jumped  the  country  "  rather 
than  submit  to  arrest. 

The  second  type  included  all  who  slew  in  support 
of  law  and  order.  This  type  included  six  classes: 
A,  United  States  marshals;  B,  Sheriffs  and  their 
deputies;  C,  Stage  or  railway  express  guards,  called 
"  messengers  " ;  D,  Private  citizens  organized  as  Vigi- 
lance Committees  —  these  often  none  too  discrimi- 
nating, and  not  infrequently  the  blind  or  willing 
instruments  of  individual  grudge  or  greed;  E,  Un- 
organized bands  of  ranchmen  who  took  the  trail  of 

*  Triggerfingeritis  is  an  acute  irritation  of  the  sensory 
nerves  of  the  index  finger  of  habitual  gun-packers ;  usually 
fatal  —  to  some  one. 

[70] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

marauders  on  life  or  property  and  never  quit  it; 
F,  "Inspectors"  (detectives)  for  Stock  Growers' 
Associations. 

Throughout  the  seventies  and  well  into  the  eighties, 
in  Wyoming,  Dakota,  western  Kansas  and  Nebraska, 
New  Mexico,  and  west  Texas,  courts  were  idle  most 
of  the  time,  and  lawyers  lived  from  hand  to  mouth. 
The  then  state  of  local  society  was  so  rudimentary 
that  it  had  not  acquired  the  habit  of  appeal  to  the  law 
for  settlement  of  its  differences.  And  while  it  may 
sound  an  anachronism,  it  is  nevertheless  the  simple 
truth  that  while  life  was  far  less  secure  through  that 
period,  average  personal  honesty  then  ranked  higher 
and  depredations  against  property  were  fewer  than 
at  any  time  since. 

As  soon  as  society  had  advanced  to  a  point  where 
the  victim  could  be  relied  on  to  carry  his  wrongs  to 
court,  judges  began  working  overtime  and  lawyers 
fattening.  But  of  the  actual  pioneers  who  took  their 
lives  in  their  hands  and  recklessly  staked  them  in 
their  everyday  goings  and  comings  (as,  for  instance, 
did  all  who  ventured  into  the  Sioux  country  north  of 
the  Platte  between  1875  and  1880)  few  long  stayed  — 
no  matter  what  their  occupation  —  who  were  slow  on 
the  trigger:  it  was  back  to  Mother  Earth  or  home 
for  them. 

Of  the  supporters  of  the  law  in  that  period  Boone 
May  was  one  of  the  finest  examples  any  frontier  coin- 
[71] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

munity  ever  boasted.  Early  in  1876  he  came  to 
Cheyenne  with  an  elder  brother  and  engaged  in 
freighting  thence  overland  to  the  Black  Hills.  Quite 
half  the  length  of  the  stage  road  was  then  infested  by 
hostile  Sioux.  This  meant  heavy  risks  and  high  pay. 
The  brothers  prospered  so  handsomely  that,  toward 
the  end  of  the  year,  Boone  withdrew  from  freighting, 
bought  a  few  cattle  and  horses,  and  built  and  occupied 
a  ranch  at  the  stage-road  crossing  of  Lance  Creek, 
midway  between  the  Platte  and  Deadwood,  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  Sioux  country.  Boone  was  then  well 
under  thirty,  graceful  of  figure,  dark-haired,  wore  a 
slender  downy  moustache  that  served  only  to  empha- 
size his  youth,  but  possessed  that  reserve  and  repose 
of  manner  most  typical  of  the  utterly  fearless. 

The  Sioux  made  his  acquaintance  early,  to  their 
grief.  One  night  they  descended  on  his  ranch  and 
carried  off  all  the  stage  horses  and  most  of  Boone's. 
Although  the  "  sign "  showed  there  were  fifteen  or 
twenty  in  the  party,  at  daylight  Boone  took  their 
trail,  alone.  The  third  day  thereafter  he  returned 
to  the  ranch  with  all  the  stolen  stock,  besides  a  dozen 
split-eared  Indian  ponies,  as  compensation  for  his 
trouble,  taken  at  what  cost  of  strategy  or  blood 
Boone  never  told. 

Learning  of  this  exploit  from  his  drivers,  Al.  Pat- 
rick, the  superintendent  of  the  stage  line,  took  the 
next  coach  to  Lance  Creek  and  brought  Boone  back 
[72] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

to  Deadwood,  enlisted  in  his  corps  of  "  messengers  " ; 
he  was  too  good  timber  to  miss. 

At  that  time  every  coach  south-bound  from  Dead- 
wood  to  Cheyenne  carried  thousands  in  its  mail- 
pouches  and  express-boxes;  and  once  a  week  a 
treasure  coach  armored  with  boiler  plate,  carrying  no 
passengers,  and  guarded  by  six  or  eight  "messen- 
gers" or  "sawed-off  shotgun  men,"  conveyed  often 
as  high  as  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  of  hard-won 
Black  Hills  gold  bars. 

Thus  it  naturally  followed  that,  throughout  1877 
and  1878,  it  was  the  exception  for  a  coach  to  get 
through  from  the  Chugwater  to  Jenny's  stockade 
without  being  held  up  by  bandits  at  least  once. 

Any  that  happened  to  escape  Jack  Wadkins  in  the 
south  were  likely  to  fall  prey  to  Dune  Blackburn 
in  the  north  —  the  two  most  desperate  bandit-leaders 
in  the  country. 

In  February,  1878,  I  had  occasion  to  follow  some 
cattle  thieves  from  Fort  Laramie  to  Deadwood.  Re- 
turning south  by  coach,  one  bitter  evening  we  pulled 
into  Lance  Creek,  eight  passengers  inside,  Boone  May 
and  myself  on  the  box  with  'Gene  Barnett  the  driver ; 
Stocking,  another  famous  messenger,  roosted  behind 
us  atop  of  the  coach,  fondling  his  sawed-off  shotgun. 

From  Lance  Creek  southward  lay  the  greatest 
danger  zone.  At  that  point,  therefore,  Boone  and 
Stocking  shifted  from  the  coach  to  the  saddle,  and,  as 
[73] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

'Gene  popped  his  whip  and  the  coach  crunched  away 
through  the  snow,  both  dropped  back  perhaps  thirty 
yards  behind  us. 

An  hour  later,  just  as  the  coach  got  well  within  a 
broad  belt  of  plum  bushes  that  lined  the  north  bank 
of  Old  Woman's  Fork,  out  into  the  middle  of  the  road 
sprang  a  lithe  figure  that  threw  a  snap  shot  over 
'Gene's  head  and  halted  us. 

Instantly  six  others  surrounded  the  coach  and 
ordered  us  down.  I  already  had  a  foot  on  the  nigh 
front  wheel,  to  descend,  when  a  shot  out  of  the  brush 
to  the  west  (Boone's,  I  later  learned)  dropped  the 
man  ahead  of  the  team. 

Then  followed  a  quick  interchange  of  shots  for  per- 
haps a  minute,  certainly  no  more,  and  then  I  heard 
Boone's  cool  voice: 

"  Drive  on,  'Gene ! " 

"  Move  an'  I  '11  kill  you ! "  came  in  a  hoarse  bandit's 
voice  from  the  thicket  east  of  us. 

"  Drive  on,  'Gene,  or  /  9ll  kill  you, "  came  then  from 
Boone,  in  a  tone  of  such  chilling  menance  that  'Gene 
threw  the  bud  into  the  leaders,  and  away  we  flew  at 
a  pace  materially  improved  by  three  or  four  shots  the 
bandits  sent  singing  past  our  ears  and  over  the  team ! 
The  next  down  coach  brought  to  Cheyenne  the  com- 
forting news  that  Boone  and  Stocking  had  killed  four 
of  the  bandits  and  stampeded  the  other  three. 

Within  six  months  after  Boone  was  employed,  both 
[74] 


Into  the  middle  of  the  road  sprang  a  lithe  figure 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

Dune  Blackburn  and  Jack  Wadkins  disappeared 
from  the  stage  road,  dropped  out  of  sight  as  if  the 
earth  had  opened  and  swallowed  them,  as  it  probably 
had.  Boone  had  a  way  of  absenting  himself  for  days 
from  his  routine  duties  along  the  stage  road.  He 
slipped  off  entirely  alone  after  this  new  quarry  pre- 
cisely as  he  had  followed  the  Sioux  horse-raiders  and, 
while  he  never  admitted  it,  the  belief  was  general  that 
he  had  run  down  and  "  planted  "  both.  Indeed  it  is 
almost  a  certainty  this  is  true,  for  beasts  of  their  type 
never  change  their  stripes,  and  sure  it  is  that  neither 
were  ever  seen  or  heard  of  after  their  disappearance 
from  the  Deadwood  trail. 

Late  in  the  Autumn  of  the  same  year,  1878,  and 
also  at  or  near  the  stage-crossing  of  Old  Woman's 
Fork,  Boone  and  one  companion  fought  eight  bandits 
led  by  a  man  named  Tolle,  on  whose  head  was  a  large 
reward.  This  was  earned  by  Boone  at  a  hold-up  of 
a  U.  P.  express  train  near  Green  River. 

This  band  was,  in  a  way,  more  lucky,  for  five  of  the 
eight  escaped;  but  of  the  three  otherwise  engaged 
one  furnished  a  head  which  Boone  toted  in  a  gunny 
sack  to  Cheyenne  and  exchanged  for  five  thousand 
dollars,  if  my  memory  rightly  serves. 

This  incident  was  practically  the  last  of  the  serious 
hold-ups  on  the  Cheyenne  road.     A  few  pikers  fol- 
lowed and  "  stood  up  "  a  coach  occasionally,  but  the 
strong  organized  bands  were  extinct. 
[75] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Throughout  1879  Boone's  activities  were  trans- 
ferred to  the  Sidnej-Deadwood  road,  where  for  sev- 
eral months  before  Boone's  coming,  Curly  and  Lame 
Johnny  had  held  sway.  Lame  Johnny  was  shortly 
thereafter  captured,  and  hanged  on  the  lone  tree  that 
gave  the  Big  Cottonwood  Creek  its  name.  A  few 
months  later,  Curly  was  captured  by  Boone  and  an- 
other, but  was  never  jailed  or  tried:  when  nearing 
Deadwood,  he  tried  to  escape  from  Boone,  and  failed. 

With  the  Sioux  pushed  back  within  the  lines  of 
their  new  reservation  in  southern  Dakota  and  semi- 
pacified,  and  with  the  Sidney  road  swept  clean  of 
road-agents,  life  in  Boone's  old  haunts  became  for 
him  too  tame.  Thus  it  happened  that,  while  trap- 
ping was  then  no  better  within  than  without  the  Sioux 
reservation,  the  Winter  of  1879-80  found  Boone  and 
four  mates  camped  on  the  Cheyenne  River  below  the 
mouth  of  Elk  Creek,  well  within  the  reserve,  trapping 
the  main  stream  and  its  tributaries.  For  a  month 
they  were  undisturbed,  and  a  goodly  store  of  fur  was 
fast  accumulating.  Then  one  fine  morning,  while 
breakfast  was  cooking,  out  from  the  cover  of  an  ad- 
jacent hill  and  down  upon  them  charged  a  Sioux  war 
party,  one  hundred  and  fifty  strong. 

Boone's  four  mates  barely  had  time  to  take  cover 
below  the  hard-by  river  bank  —  under  Boone's  orders 
—  before  fire  opened.  Down  straight  upon  them  the 
Sioux  charged  in  solid  mass,  heels  kicking  and  quirts 

[76] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

pounding  their  split-eared  ponies,  until,  having  come 
within  a  hundred  yards,  the  mass  broke  into  single  file 
and  raced  past  the  camp,  each  warrior  lying  along 
the  off  side  of  his  pony  and  firing  beneath  its  neck  — 
the  usual  but  utterly  stupid  and  suicidal  Sioux  tac- 
tics, for  accurate  fire  under  such  conditions  is  of 
course  impossible. 

Meantime  Boone  stood  quietly  by  the  camp-fire, 
entirely  in  the  open,  coolly  potting  the  enemy  as  regu- 
larly and  surely  as  a  master  wing-shot  thinning  a 
flight  of  ducks.  Three  times  they  so  charged  and 
Boone  so  received  them,  pouring  into  them  a  steady, 
deadly  fire  out  of  his  Winchester  and  two  pistols. 
And  when,  after  the  third  charge,  the  war  party  drew 
off  for  good,  forty-odd  ponies  and  twenty-odd  war- 
riors lay  upon  the  plain,  stark  evidence  of  Boone's 
wonderful  nerve  and  marksmanship.  Shortly  after 
the  fight  one  of  his  mates  told  me  that  while  he  and 
the  three  others  were  doing  their  best,  there  was  no 
doubt  that  nearly  all  the  dead  fell  before  Boone's  fire. 

A  type  diametrically  opposite  to  that  of  the  debo- 
nair Boone  May  was  Captain  Jim  Smith,  one  of  the 
best  peace-officers  the  frontier  ever  knew.  Of  Cap- 
tain Smith's  early  history  nothing  was  known,  except 
that  he  had  served  with  great  credit  as  a  captain  of 
artillery  in  the  Union  Army.  He  first  appeared  on 
the  U.  P.  during  construction  days  in  the  late  sixties. 
[77] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Serving  in  various  capacities  as  railroad  detective, 
marshal,  stock  inspector,  and  the  like,  for  eighteen 
years  Captain  Smith  wrote  more  red  history  with  his 
pistol  (barring  May's  work  on  the  Sioux)  than  any 
two  men  of  his  time. 

The  last  I  knew  of  him  he  had  enough  dead  outlaws 
to  his  credit  —  thirty-odd  —  to  start,  if  not  a  respec- 
table, at  least,  a  fair-sized  graveyard.  Captain  Jim's 
mere  look  was  almost  enough  to  still  the  heart-beat 
and  paralyze  the  pistol  hand  of  any  but  the  wildest 
of  them  all.  His  great  burning  black  eyes,  glowering 
deadly  menace  from  cavernous  sockets  of  extraordi- 
nary depth,  were  set  in  a  colossal  grim  face;  his 
straight,  thin-lipped  mouth  never  showed  teeth;  his 
heavy,  tight-curling  black  moustache  and  stiff  black 
imperial  always  had  the  appearance  of  holding  the 
under  lip  closely  glued  to  the  upper.  In  years  of  inti- 
macy, I  never  once  saw  on  his  lips  the  faintest  hint  of 
a  smile.  He  had  tremendous  breadth  of  shoulders 
and  depth  of  chest;  he  was  big-boned,  lean-loined, 
quick  and  furtive  of  movement  as  a  panther.  In 
short,  Captain  Jim  was  altogether  the  most  fearsome- 
looking  man  I  ever  saw,  the  very  incarnation  of  a  re- 
lentless, inexorable,  indomitable,  avenging  Nemesis. 

Like  most  men  lacking  humor,  Captain  Jim  was 
devoid  of  vices ;  like  all  men  lacking  sentiment,  he  cul- 
tivated no  intimacies.  Throughout  those  years  he 
loved  nothing,  animate  or  inanimate,  but  his  guns  — 
[78] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

the  full  length  "  45  "  that  nestled  in  its  breast  scab- 
bard next  his  heart,  and  the  short  "45,"  sawed  off 
two  inches  in  front  of  the  cylinder,  that  he  always 
carried  in  a  deep  side-pocket  of  his  long  sack  coat. 
This  was  often  a  much  patched  pocket,  for  Jim  was 
a  notable  economist  of  time,  and  usually  fired  from 
within  the  pocket.  That  he  loved  those  guns  I  know, 
for  often  have  I  seen  him  fondle  them  as  tenderly  as 
a  mother  her  first-born. 

In  1879  Sidney,  Neb.,  was  a  hell-hole,  filled  with 
the  most  desperate  toughs  come  to  prey  upon  over- 
land travellers  to  and  from  the  Black  Hills.  Of  these 
toughs  McCarthy,  proprietor  of  the  biggest  saloon 
and  gambling-house  in  town,  was  the  leading  spirit 
and  boss.  Nightly,  men  who  would  not  gamble  were 
drugged  or  slugged  or  leaded.  Town  marshals  came 
and  went  —  either  feet  first  or  on  a  keen  run. 

So  long  as  its  property  remained  unmolested  the 
U.  P.  management  did  not  mind.  But  one  night  the 
depot  was  robbed  of  sixty  thousand  dollars  in  gold 
bullion.  Of  course,  this  was  the  work  of  the  local 
gang.  Then  the  U.  P.  got  busy.  Pete  Shelby  sum- 
moned Captain  Jim  to  Omaha  and  committed  the  Sid- 
ney situation  to  his  charge.  Frequenting  haunts 
where  he  knew  the  news  would  be  wired  to  Sidney,  Jim 
casually  mentioned  that  he  was  going  out  there  to 
clean  out  the  town,  and  purposed  killing  McCarthy 
on  sight.  This  he  rightly  judged  would  stampede, 
[79] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

or   throw   a   chill   into,   many   of   the   pikers  —  and 
simplify  his  task. 

Arrived  in  Sidney,  Jim  found  McCarthy  absent, 
at  North  Platte,  due  to  return  the  next  day.  Coming 
-to  the  station  the  next  morning,  Jim  found  the  express 
reported  three  hours  late,  and  returned  to  his  room 
in  the  Railway  House,  fifty  yards  north  of  the  depot. 
He  doffed  his  coat,  shoulder  scabbard,  and  boots,  and 
lay  down,  shortly  falling  into  a  doze  that  nearly  cost 
him  his  life.  Most  inconsiderately  the  train  made  up 
nearly  an  hour  of  its  lost  time.  Jim's  awakening 
was  sudden,  but  not  soon  enough.  Before  he  had 
time  to  rise  at  the  sound  of  the  softly  opening  door, 
McCarthy  was  over  him  with  a  pistol  at  his  head. 

Jim's  left  hand  nearly  touched  the  gun  pocket  of 
his  coat,  and  his  right  lay  in  reach  of  the  other  gun ; 
but  his  slightest  movement  meant  instant  death. 

"  Heerd  you  come  to  hang  my  hide  up  an'  skin  the 
town,  but  you're  under  a  copper  and  my  open  play 
wins,  Black  Jim !  See  ?  "  growled  McCarthy. 

"Well,  Mac,"  coolly  answered  Jim,  "you're  a 
bigger  damn  fool  than  I  allowed.  Never  heard  of 
you  before  makin'  a  killin'  there  was  nothin'  in. 
What's  the  matter  with  you  and  your  gang?  I'm 
after  that  bullion,  and  I  've  got  a  straight  tip :  Lame 
Johnny's  the  bird  that  hooked  onto  it.  If  you're 
standing  in  with  him,  you  better  lead  me  a  plenty, 
for  if  you  don't  I  '11  sure  get  him. " 
[80] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

"  Honest  ?  Is  that  right,  Jim  ?  Ain't  lyin'  none  ?  " 
queried  McCarthy,  relieved  of  the  belief  the.t  his  gang 
were  suspected. 

"  Sure,  she's  right,  Mac.  " 

"  But  I  heerd  you  done  said  you  was  comin'  to  do 
me,"  persisted  McCarthy. 

"Think  I'm  fool  enough  to  light  in  diggin'  my 
own  grave,  by  sendin'  love  messages  like  that  to  a 
gun  expert  like  you,  Mac  ?  "  asked  Captain  Jim. 

Whether  it  was  the  subtle  flattery  or  Jim's  argu- 
ment, Mac  lowered  his  gun,  and  while  backing  out  of 
the  room,  remarked :  "  Nothin'  in  mixin'  it  with  you, 
Jim,  if  you  don't  want  me. " 

But  Mac  was  no  more  than  out  of  the  room  when 
Jim  slid  off  the  bed  quick  as  a  cat ;  softly  as  a  cat,  on 
his  noiseless  stockinged  feet  he  followed  Mac  down 
the  hall ;  crafty  as  a  cat,  he  crept  down  the  creaking 
stairs,  tread  for  tread,  a  scant  arm's  length  behind 
his  prey  —  why,  God  alone  knows,  unless  for  a  savage 
joy  in  longer  holding  another  thug's  life  in  his  hands. 
So  he  hung,  like  a  leech  to  the  blood  it  loves,  across 
the  corridor  and  to  the  middle  of  the  trunk  room  that 
lay  between  the  hall  and  the  hotel  office.  There  Jim 
spoke : 

"Oh!  Mr.  McCarthy!" 

Mac  whirled,  drawing  his  gun,  just  in  time  to  re- 
ceive a  bullet  squarely  through  the  heart. 

During  the  day  Jim  got  two  more  scalps.  The 
[81] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

rest  of  the  McCarthy  gang  got  the  impression  that  it 
was  up  to  them  to  pull  their  freight  out  of  Sidney* 
and  acted  on  it. 

In  1882  the  smoke  of  the  Lincoln  County  War  still 
hung  in  the  timber  of  the  Ruidoso  and  the  Bonito,  a 
feud  in  which  nearly  three  hundred  jNew  Mexicans 
lost  their  lives.  Depredations  on  the  Mescalero  Res- 
ervation were  so  frequent  that  the  Indians  were  near 
open  revolt. 

Needing  a  red-blooded  agent,  the  Indian  Bureau 
sought  and  got  one  in  Major  W.  H.  H.  Llewellyn, 
since  Captain  of  Rough  Riders,  Troop  H  then  a 
United  States  marshal  with  a  distinguished  record. 
The  then  Chief  of  the  Bureau  offered  the  Major  two 
troops  of  cavalry  to  preserve  order  among  the  Mes- 
caleros  and  keep  marauders  off  the  reservation,  and 
was  astounded  when  Llewellyn  declined  and  said  he 
would  prefer  to  handle  the  situation  with  no  other  aid 
than  that  of  one  man  he  had  in  mind. 

Captain  Jim  Smith  was  the  man.  And  pleased 
enough  was  he  when  told  of  the  turbulence  of  the 
country  and  the  certainty  of  plenty  doing  in  his  line. 

But  by  the  time  they  reached  the  Mescalero 
Agency,  the  feud  was  ended ;  the  peace  of  exhaustion 
after  years  of  open  war  and  ambush  had  descended 
upon  Lincoln  County,  and  the  Mescaleros  were  glad 

[82] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

enough  quietly  to  draw  their  rations  of  flour  and  cof- 
fee, and  range  the  Sacramentos  and  Guadalupes  for 
game.  For  Jim  and  the  band  of  Indian  police  which 
he  quickly  organized  there  was  nothing  doing. 

Inaction  soon  cloyed  Captain  Jim.  It  got  on  his 
nerves.  Presently  he  conceived  a  resentment  toward 
the  agent  for  bringing  him  down  there  under  false 
pretences  of  daring  deeds  to  be  done,  that  never  mate- 
rialized. One  day  Major  Llewellyn  imprudently 
countermanded  an  order  Jim  had  given  his  Chief  of 
Police,  under  conditions  which  the  Captain  took  as 
a  personal  affront.  The  next  thing  the  Major  knew, 
he  was  covered  by  Jim's  gun  and  listening  to  his  death 
sentence. 

"  Major, "  began  Captain  Jim,  "  right  here  is  where 
you  cash  in.  Played  me  for  a  big  fool  long  enough. 
Toted  me  off  down  here  on  the  guarantee  of  the  best 
show  of  fightin'  I've  heard  of  since  the  war  —  here 
where  there  ain't  a  man  in  the  Territory  with  nerve 
enough  left  to  tackle  a  prairie  dog,  's  far 's  I  can  see. 
Lied  to  me  a  plenty,  didn't  you?  Anything  to  say 
before  you  quit?" 

Since  that  time  Major  Llewellyn  has  become  (and 
is  now)  a  famous  pleader  at  the  New  Mexican  bar, 
but  I  know  he  will  agree  that  the  most  eloquent  plea 
he  has  to  this  day  made  was  that  in  answer  to 
Captain  Jim's  arraignment.  Luckily  it  won. 

[83] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

A  month  later  Jim  called  on  me  at  El  Paso.  At 
the  time  I  was  President  of  the  West  Texas  Cattle 
Growers'  Association,  organized  chiefly  to  deal  with 
marauding  rustlers. 

"  Howdy,  Ed, "  Jim  began,  "  I  've  jumped  the  Mes- 
calero  Reservation,  headed  north.  Nothin'  doin' 
down  here  now.  But,  say,  Ed,  I  hear  they're 
crowdin'  the  rustlers  a  plenty  up  in  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory and  the  Pan  Handle,  and  she's  a  cinch  they  '11 
be  down  on  you  thick  in  a  few  months.  And,  say, 
Ed,  don't  forget  old  Jim;  when  the  rustlers  come, 
send  for  him.  You  know  he's  the  cheapest  proposi- 
tion ever  —  never  any  lawyers'  fees  or  court  costs, 
nothin'  to  pay  but  just  Jim's  wages. " 

That  was  the  last  time  we  ever  met,  and  lucky  it 
will  probably  be  for  me  if  we  never  meet  again;  for 
if  Jim  still  lives  and  there  is  aught  in  this  story  he 
sees  occasion  to  take  exception  to,  I  am  sure  to  be  due 
for  a  mix-up  I  can  very  well  get  on  without. 

From  1878  to  1880  Billy  Lykins  was  one  of  the 
most  efficient  inspectors  of  the  Wyoming  Stock  Grow^ 
ers'  Association,  a  short  man  of  heavy  muscular 
physique  and  a  round,  cherubic,  pink  and  white  face, 
in  which  a  pair  of  steel-blue  glittering  eyes  looked 
strangely  out  of  place.  A  second  glance,  however, 
showed  behind  the  smiling  mouth  a  set  of  the  jaw  that 
did  not  belie  the  fighting  eyes.  So  far  as  I  can  now 
[84] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

recall,  Billy  never  failed  to  get  what  he  went  after 
while  he  remained  in  our  employ. 

Probably  the  toughest  customer  Billy  ever  tackled 
was  Doc  Middleton.  As  an  outlaw,  Doc  was  the 
victim  of  an  error  of  judgment.  When  he  first  came 
among  us,  hailing  from  Llano  County,  Texas,  Doc 
was  as  fine  a  puncher  and  jolly,  good-tempered  range- 
mate  as  any  in  the  Territory.  Sober  and  industri- 
ous, he  never  drank  or  gambled.  But  he  had  his  bit 
of  temper,  had  Doc,  and  his  chunk  of  good  old  Llano 
nerve.  Thus,  when  a  group  of  carousing  soldiers, 
in  a  Sidney  saloon,  one  night  lit  in  to  beat  Doc  up  with 
their  six-shooters  for  refusing  to  drink  with  them,  the 
inevitable  happened  in  a  very  few  seconds ;  Doc  killed 
three  of  them,  jumped  his  horse,  and  split  the  wind 
for  the  Platte. 

And  therein  lay  his  error. 

The  killing  was  perfectly  justifiable;  surrendered 
and  tried,  he  would  surely  have  been  acquitted.  But 
his  breed  never  surrender,  at  least,  never  before  their 
last  shell  is  emptied.  Flight  having  made  him  an 
outlaw,  the  Government  offered  a  heavy  reward  for 
him,  dead  or  alive.  For  a  time  he  was  harbored 
among  his  friends  on  the  different  ranches;  indeed 
was  a  welcome  guest  of  my  Deadman  Ranch  for  sev- 
eral days ;  but  in  a  few  weeks  the  hue  and  cry  got  so 
hot  that  he  had  to  jump  for  the  Sand  Hills  south  of 
the  Niobrara. 

[85] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Ever  pursued,  he  found  that  honest  wage-earning 
was  impossible.  Presently  he  was  confronted  with 
want,  not  of  much,  indeed  of  very  little,  but  that 
want  was  vital  —  he  wanted  cartridges.  At  this  time 
the  Sand  Hills  were  full  of  deer  and  antelope;  and 
therefore  to  him  cartridges  meant  more  even  than  de- 
fence of  his  freedom,  they  meant  food.  It  was  this 
want  that  drove  him  into  his  first  actual  crime,  the 
stealing  of  Sioux  ponies,  which  he  ran  into  the  set- 
tlements and  sold. 

The  downward  path  of  the  criminal  is  like  that  of 
the  limpid,  clean-faced  brook,  bred  of  a  bubbling 
spring  nestled  in  some  shady  nook  of  the  hills,  where 
the  air  is  sweet  and  pure,  and  pollution  cometh  not. 
But  there  it  may  not  stay;  on  and  yet  on  it  rushes, 
as  helpless  as  heedless,  till  one  day  it  finds  itself 
plunged  into  some  foul  current  carrying  the  off- 
scourings of  half  a  continent.  So  on  and  down 
plunged  Doc ;  from  stealing  Indian  ponies  to  lifting 
ranch  horses  was  no  long  leap  in  his  new  code. 

Then  our  Stock  Association  got  busy  and  Billy 
Lykins  took  his  trail.  Oddly,  in  a  few  months  the 
same  type  of  accident  in  turn  saved  the  life  of  each. 
Their  first  encounter  was  single-handed.  With  the 
better  horse,  Lykins  was  pressing  Doc  so  close  that 
Doc  raced  to  the  crest  of  a  low  conical  hill,  jumped 
off  his  mount,  dropped  flat  on  the  ground  and  cov- 

[86] 


At  a  sharp  bend  of  the  trail  they  ran  into  Doc  and  five  of 
his  men" 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

ered  Ljkins  with  a  Springfield  rifle,  meantime  yell- 
ing to  him : 

"Duck,  you  little  Dutch  fool;  I  don't  want  to 
kill  you";  for  they  knew  each  other  well,  and  in  a 
way  were  friends. 

But  Billy  never  knew  when  to  stop.  Deeper  into 
his  pony's  flank  sank  the  rowels,  and  up  the  hill  on 
Doc  he  charged,  pistol  in  hand.  At  thirty  yards  Doc 
pulled  the  trigger,  when  —  wonder  of  wonders  —  the 
faithful  old  Springfield  missed  fire.  Before  Doc 
could  throw  in  another  shell  or  draw  his  pistol,  Billy 
was  over  him  and  had  him  covered. 

If  my  memory  rightly  serves,  the  Sidney  jail  held 
Doc  almost  a  fortnight.  A  few  weeks  later  Doc  had 
assembled  a  strong  gang  about  him,  rendezvoused  on 
the  Piney,  a  tributary  of  the  lower  Niobrara.  There 
he  was  far  east  of  Lykins's  bailiwick,  but  a  good  many 
degrees  within  Lykins's  disposition  to  quit  his  trail. 
Accompanied  by  Major  W.  H.  H.  Llewellyn  and  an 
Omaha  detective  (inappropriately  named  Hassard), 
Lykins  located  Doc's  camp,  and  the  three  lay  near 
for  several  days  studying  their  quarry. 

One  morning  Llewellyn  and  Hassard  started  up 
the  creek,  mounted,  on  a  scout,  leaving  Lykins  and 
his  horse  hidden  in  the  brush  near  the  trail.  At  a 
sharp  bend  of  the  path  the  two  ran  plunk  into  Doc 
and  five  of  his  men.  Both  being  unknown  to  Doc's 

[87] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

gang,  and  the  position  and  odds  forbidding  hostili- 
ties, they  represented  themselves  as  campers  hunting 
lost  stock,  and  turned  and  rode  back  down  the  trail 
with  the  outlaws,  alert  for  any  play  their  leader  might 
make. 

Recognizing  his  man,  Billy  lay  with  his  "  45  "  and 
u  YQ  »  Sharps  comfortably  resting  across  a  log ;  and 
when  the  band  were  come  within  twenty  yards  of  him, 
he  drew  a  careful  bead  on  Doc's  head  and  pulled  the 
trigger.  By  strange  coincidence  his  Sharps  missed 
fire,  precisely  as  had  Doc's  Springfield  a  few  weeks 
before. 

Hearing  the  snap  of  the  rifle  hammer,  with  a  curse 
Doc  jerked  his  gun  and  whirled  his  horse  toward  the 
brush,  just  as  Billy  sprang  out  into  the  open  and 
threw  a  pistol  shot  into  Dec  that  broke  his  thigh. 
Swaying  in  the  saddle,  Doc  cursed  Hassard  for  lead- 
ing him  into  a  trap,  and  shot  him  twice  before  himself 
pitching  to  the  ground.  Hassard  stood  idly,  stunned 
apparently  by  a  sort  of  white-hot  work  he  was  not 
used  to,  and  received  his  death  wound  without  any 
effort  even  to  draw.  Meantime,  the  firm  of  Lykins 
and  Llewellyn  accounted  for  two  more  before  Doc's 
mates  got  out  of  range.  Thus,  like  the  brook,  Doc 
had  drifted  down  the  turbid  current  of  crime  till  he 
found  himself  impounded  in  the  Lincoln  penitentiary 
with  the  offscourings  of  the  State. 

While  it  is  true  that  back  into  such  impounding 
[88] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

most  who  once  have  been  there  soon  return,  Doc 
turned  out  to  be  one  of  the  rare  exceptions  proving 
the  rule ;  for  the  last  I  heard  of  him,  he  was  the  lame 
but  light-hearted  and  wholly  honest  proprietor  of  a 
respectable  Rushville  saloon. 

When  in  the  early  eighties  the  front  camps  of  the 
Atchison,  Topeka,  and  Santa  Fe  and  the  Texas  Pa- 
cific met  at  El  Paso,  then  a  village  called  Franklin, 
within  a  few  weeks  the  population  jumped  from  a 
few  hundred  to  nearly  three  thousand.  Speculators, 
prospectors  for  business  opportunities,  mechanics, 
miners,  and  tourists  poured  in  —  a  chance-taking, 
high-living,  free-spending  lot  that  offered  such  rich 
pickings  for  the  predatory  that  it  was  not  long  before 
nearly  every  fat  pigeon  had  a  hungry,  merciless  vul- 
ture hovering  near,  watching  for  a  chance  to  fasten 
its  claws  and  gorge  itself. 

The  low  one-story  adobes,  fronted  by  broad,  arched 
portals,  that  then  lined  the  west  side  of  El  Paso  Street 
for  several  blocks,  was  a  long  solid  row  of  variety 
theatres,  dance  halls,  saloons,  and  gambling-houses, 
never  closed  by  day  or  by  night.  They  were  packed 
with  a  roistering  mob  that  drifted  from  one  joint  to 
another,  dancing,  gambling,  carousing,  fighting. 
Naturally,  at  first  the  predatory  confined  their  atten- 
tions to  the  roisterers. 

Of  course  every  lay-out  was  a  brace  £ame,  fiom 

[89] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

winch  no  player  arose  with  any  notable  winning  ex- 
cept occasionally  when  the  "  house  "  felt  it  a  good  bit 
of  advertising  to  graduate  a  handsome  winner  —  and 
then  it  was  usually  a  "  capper, "  whose  gains  were  in 
a  few  minutes  passed  back  into  the  till. 

The  faro  boxes  were  full  of  springs  as  a  watch; 
faro  decks  were  carefully  cut  "  strippers. "  An 
average  good  dealer  would  shuffle  and  arrange  as  he 
liked  the  favorite  cards  of  known  high-rollers. 
These  had  been  neatly  split  on  either  edge  and  a  mi- 
nute bit  of  bristle  pasted  in,  which  no  ordinary  touch 
would  feel,  but  which  the  sand-papered  finger  tips  of 
an  expert  dealer  would  catch  and  slip  through  on  the 
shuffle  and  place  where  they  would  do  (the  house)  the 
most  good.  The  "  tin  horns  "  gave  out  few  but  false 
notes;  the  roulette  balls  were  kicked  silly  out  of  the 
boxes  representing  heavily  played  numbers.  Not 
content  with  the  "  kitty's  "  rake-off,  every  stud  poker 
table  had  one  or  more  "  cappers  "  sitting  in,  to  whom 
the  dealers  could  occasionally  throw  a  stiff  pot.  The 
backs  of  poker  decks  were  so  cunningly  marked  that 
while  the  wise  ones  could  read  their  size  and  suit 
across  the  table,  no  untaught  eye  could  detect  their 
guile.  And  wherever  a  notable  roll  was  once  flashed, 
greedy  eyes  never  left  it  until  it  was  safe  in  the  till  of 
some  game,  or  its  owner  "rolled"  and  relieved  of  it 
by  force. 

For  months  orgy  ran  riot  and  the  predatory  band 

[90] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

grew  bolder  and  cruder  in  their  methods.  Killings 
were  frequent.  Few  nights  passed  without  more  or 
less  street  hold-ups  —  usually  more.  Respectable  cit- 
izens took  the  middle  of  the  street,  literally  gun  in 
hand,  when  forced  to  be  out  of  nights.  The  Mayor 
and  City  Council  were  powerless.  City  marshals  and 
deputies  they  hired  in  bunches,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
Each  fresh  lot  of  appointees  were  short-lived,  liter- 
ally or  officially  —  mostly  literally.  Finally,  a  vigi- 
lance committee  was  formed,  made  up  of  good  citizens 
not  a  few  of  whom  were  gun  experts  with  their  own 
bit  of  red  record.  But  nothing  came  of  it.  The 
predatories  openly  flouted  and  defied  them. 

On  one  notable  night  when  the  committee  were  as- 
sembled in  front  of  the  old  Grand  Central  Hotel,  a 
mob  of  two  hundred  toughs  lined  up  before  the  thirty- 
odd  of  the  committee  and  dared  them  to  open  the 
ball;  and  it  was  a  miracle  the  little  Plaza  was  not 
then  and  there  turned  into  a  slaughter  pen  bloody  as 
the  Alamo.  It  really  looked  as  if  nothing  short  of 
martial  law  and  a  strong  body  of  troops  could  pacify 
the  town. 

But  one  night,  into  the  chamber  of  the  City  Council 
stalked  a  man,  the  man  of  the  hour,  unheralded 
and  unknown.  He  gave  the  name  of  Bill  Stouden- 
mayer.  About  all  that  was  ever  learned  of  him  was 
that  he  hailed  from  Fort  Davis.  His  type  was  that 
of  a  coarse,  brutal,  Germanic  gladiator,  devoid  of 
[91] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

strategy ;  a  bluff,  stubborn,  give-and-take  fighter,  who 
drove  bull-headed  at  whatever  opposed  him.  But  El 
Paso  soon  learned  that  he  could  handle  his  guns  with 
as  deadly  dexterity  as  did  his  forebears  their  nets 
and  tridents. 

Asked  his  business  with  the  Council,  he  said  he 
had  heard  they  had  failed  to  find  a  marshal  who  could 
hold  the  town  down,  and  allowed  he'd  like  to  try  the 
job  if  the  Council  would  make  it  worth  his  while. 
Questioned  as  to  his  views,  he  explained  that  he  was 
there  to  make  some  good  money  for  himself  and  save 
the  city  more ;  if  they  would  pay  him  five  hundred  dol- 
lars a  month  for  two  months,  they  could  discharge 
all  their  deputies  and  he  would  go  it  alone  and  agree 
to  clear  the  town  of  toughs  or  draw  no  pay.  The 
Mayor  and  Council  were  paralyzed  in  a  double  sense : 
by  the  wild  audacity  of  this  proposal,  and  by  their 
memory  of  recent  threats  of  the  thug-leaders  that  they 
would  massacre  the  Council  to  a  man  if  any  further 
attempts  were  made  to  circumscribe  their  activities. 
Some  were  openly  for  declining  the  offer,  but  in  the 
end  a  majority  gained  heart  of  Stoudenmayer's  own 
hardihood  sufficiently  to  hire  him. 

The  rest  of  the  night  Stoudenmayer  employed  in 
quietly  familiarizing  himself  with  the  personnel  of 
the  enemy.  He  lost  no  time.  At  daylight  the  next 
morning,  several  notices,  manually  written  in  a  rude 
hand  and  each  bearing  the  signature  of  the  rude  hand 
[92] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

that  wrote  it,  were  found  conspicuously  posted  be- 
tween Oregon  Street  and  the  Plaza.  The  signature 
was,  "Bill  Stoudenmayer,  City  Marshal." 

The  notice  was  brief  but  pointed : 

"Any  of  the  hold-ups  named  below  I  find  in  town 
after  three  o'clock  to-day,  I  'm  goin'  to  kill  on  sight.  " 

Then  followed  seventy  names.  The  list  was  care- 
fully chosen :  all  "  pikers  "  and  "  four-flushers  "  were 
omitted ;  none  but  the  elite  of  the  gun-twirling,  black- 
jack swinging  toughs  was  included.  Hardly  a  sin- 
gle man  was  named  in  the  list  lacking  a  more  or  less 
gory  record. 

By  the  toughs  Stoudenmayer  was  taken  as  a  jest, 
by  respectable  citizens  as  a  lunatic.  Heavy  odds 
were  offered  that  he  would  not  last  till  noon,  with 
few  takers.  And  yet  throughout  the  morning 
Stoudenmayer  quietly  walked  the  streets,  unaccom- 
panied save  by  his  two  guns  and  his  conspicuously 
displayed  marshal's  star. 

Nothing  happened  until  about  two  o'clock,  when 
two  men  sprang  out  from  ambush  behind  the  big  cot- 
tonwood  tree  that  then  stood  on  the  northeast  corner 
of  El  Paso  and  San  Antonio  Streets,  one  armed  with 
a  shotgun  and  the  other  with  a  pistol,  and  started  to 
"  throw  down  "  on  Stoudenmayer,  who  was  approach- 
ing from  the  other  side  of  the  street.  But  before 
either  got  his  artillery  into  action,  the  Marshal  jerked 
his  two  pistols  and  killed  both,  then  quietly  continued 
[93] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

his  stroll,  over  their  prostrate  bodies,  and  past 
them,  up  the  street.  It  was  such  an  obviously  work- 
manlike job  that  it  threw  a  chill  into  the  hardiest  of 
the  sixty-eight  survivors, —  so  much  of  a  chill  that, 
though  Stoudenmayer  paraded  streets  and  threaded 
saloon  and  dance-hall  throngs  all  the  rest  of  the  after- 
noon, seeking  his  prey,  not  a  single  man  of  them  could 
he  find ;  all  stayed  close  in  their  dens. 

But  that  the  thug-leaders  were  not  idle  Stouden- 
mayer was  not  long  learning.  In  the  last  moments 
of  twilight,  just  before  the  pall  of  night  fell  upon 
the  town,  the  Marshal  was  standing  on  the  east  side 
of  El  Paso  Street,  midway  between  Oregon  and  San 
Antonio  Streets,  no  cover  within  reach  of  him.  Sud- 
denly, without  the  slightest  warning,  a  heavy  fusillade 
opened  on  him  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  street, 
a  fusillade  so  heavy  it  would  have  decimated  a  com- 
pany of  infantry.  At  least  a  hundred  men  fired  at 
him  at  the  word,  and  it  was  a  miracle  he  did  not  go 
down  at  the  first  volley.  But  he  was  not  even  scathed. 
Drawing  his  pistols,  Stoudenmayer  marched  upon  the 
enemy,  slowly  but  steadily,  advancing  straight,  it 
seemed,  into  the  jaws  of  death,  but  firing  with  such 
wonderful  rapidity  and  accuracy  that  seven  of  his 
foes  were  killed  and  two  wounded  in  almost  as  many 
seconds,  although  all  kept  close  as  possible  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  portal  columns.  And  every  second  he 
was  so  engaged,  at  least  a  hundred  guns,  aimed  by 
[94] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

cruel  trained  eyes,  that  scarce  ever  before  had  missed 
whatever  they  sought  to  draw  a  bead  on,  were  pouring 
out  upon  him  a  hell  of  lead  that  must  have  sounded 
to  him  like  a  flight  of  bees. 

But  stand  his  iron  nerve  and  fatal  snap-shooting 
the  thugs  could  not.  Before  he  was  half  way  across 
the  street,  the  hostile  fire  had  ceased,  and  his  would-be 
assassins  were  flying  for  the  nearest  and  best  cover 
they  could  find.  Out  of  the  town  they  slipped  that 
night,  singly  and  in  squads,  boarding  freight  trains 
north  and  east,  stages  west  and  south,  stealing 
teams  and  saddle  stock,  some  even  hitting  the  trails 
afoot,  in  stark  terror  of  the  man.  The  next  morning 
El  Paso  found  herself  evacuated  of  more  than  two 
hundred  men  who,  while  they  had  been  for  a  time  her 
most  conspicuous  citizens,  were  such  as  she  was  glad 
enough  to  spare.  In  twenty-four  hours  Bill  Stouden- 
mayer  had  made  his  word  good  and  fairly  earned  his 
wages ;  indeed  he  had  accomplished  single-handed 
what  the  most  hopeful  El  Pasoites  had  despaired  of 
seeing  done  with  less  authority  and  force  than  two  or 
three  troops  of  regular  cavalry. 

Then  El  Paso  settled  down  to  the  humdrum  but 
profitable  task  of  laying  the  foundations  for  the  great 
metropolis  of  the  Farther  Southwest.  Since  then, 
an  occasional  sporadic  case  of  trigger fingeritis  has 
developed  in  El  Paso,  usually  in  an  acute  form;  but 
never  once  since  the  night  Stoudenmayer  turned  the 
[95] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

El  Paso  Street  portals  into  a  shambles  has  it  threat- 
ened as  an  epidemic. 

Unluckily,  Bill  Stoudenmayer  did  not  last  long  to 
enjoy  the  glory  of  his  deed.  He  was  a  marked  man, 
not  merely  from  motives  of  revenge  harbored  by 
friends  of  the  departed  (dead  or  live),  but  as  a  man 
with  a  reputation  so  big  as  to  hang  up  a  rare  prize  in 
laurels  for  any  with  the  strategy  and  hardihood  to 
down  him.  It  was  therefore  matter  of  no  general 
surprise  when,  a  few  weeks  after  his  resignation 
as  City  Marshal,  he  fell  the  victim  of  a  private 
quarrel. 

A  few  years  later,  Hal  Gosling  was  the  U.  S.  Mar- 
shal for  the  Western  District  of  Texas.  Early  in 
Gosling's  regime,  Johnny  Manning  became  one  of  his 
most  efficient  and  trusted  deputies.  The  pair  were 
wide  opposites:  Gosling,  a  big,  bluff,  kindly,  rollick- 
ing dare-devil  afraid  of  nothing,  but  a  sort  that  would 
rather  chaff  than  fight;  Manning  a  quiet,  reserved, 
slender,  handsome  little  man,  not  so  very  much  bigger 
than  a  full-grown  "  45,"  who  actually  sought  no  quar- 
rels but  would  rather  fight  than  eat.  Each  in  his 
own  way,  the  pair  made  themselves  a  holy  terror  to 
such  of  the  desperadoes  as  ventured  any  liberties 
with  Uncle  Sam's  belongings. 

One  of  their  notable  captures  was  a  brace  of  road- 
agents  who  had  appropriated  the  Concho  stage  road 
[96] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

and  about  everything  of  value  that  travelled  it.  The 
two  were  tried  in  the  Federal  Court  at  Austin  and 
sentenced  to  hard  labor  at  Huntsville.  Gosling  and 
Manning  started  to  escort  them  to  their  new  field  of 
activity.  Handcuffed  but  not  otherwise  shackled, 
the  two  prisoners  were  given  a  seat  together  near  the 
middle  of  a  day  coach.  By  permission  of  the  Mar- 
shal, the  wife  of  one  and  the  sister  of  the  other  sat 
immediately  behind  them  —  dear  old  Hal  Gosling 
never  could  resist  any  appeal  to  his  sympathies. 
The  seat  directly  across  the  aisle  from  the  two  pris- 
oners was  occupied  by  Gosling  and  Manning.  With 
the  car  well  filled  with  passengers  and  their  men 
ironed,  the  Marshal  and  his  Deputy  were  off  their 
guard.  When  out  of  Austin  barely  an  hour,  the 
train  at  full  speed,  the  two  women  slipped  pistols  into 
the  hands  of  the  two  convicted  bandits,  unseen  by  the 
officers.  But  others  saw  the  act,  and  a  stir  of  alarm 
among  those  near  by  caused  Gosling  to  whirl  in  his 
seat  next  the  aisle,  reaching  for  the  pistol  in  his  breast 
scabbard.  But  he  was  too  late.  Before  he  was  half 
risen  to  his  feet  or  his  gun  out,  the  prisoners  fired 
and  killed  him. 

Then  ensued  a  terrible  duel,  begun  at  little  more 
than  arm's  length,  between  Manning  and  the  two  pris- 
oners, who  presently  began  backing  toward  the  rear 
door.  Quickly  the  car  filled  with  smoke,  and  in  it 
pandemonium  reigned,  women  screaming,  men  curs- 
[97] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ing,  all  who  had  not  dropped  in  a  faint  ducking  be- 
neath the  car  seats  and  trying  their  best  to  burrow 
in  the  floor.  When  at  length  the  two  prisoners 
reached  the  platform  and  sprang  from  the  moving 
train,  Johnny  Manning,  shot  full  of  holes  as  a  sieve, 
lay  unconscious  across  Hal  Gosling's  body;  and  the 
sister  of  one  of  the  bandits  hung  limp  across  the  back 
of  the  seat  the  prisoners  had  occupied,  dead  of  a 
wild  shot. 

But  Johnny  had  well  avenged  Hal's  death  and  his 
own  injuries ;  one  of  the  prisoners  was  found  dead 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  track,  and  the  other  was 
captured,  mortally  wounded,  a  half-mile  away. 

After  many  uncertain  weeks,  when  Manning's  sys- 
tem had  successfully  recovered  from  the  overdose  of 
lead  administered  by  the  departed,  he  quietly  resumed 
his  star  and  belt,  and  no  one  ever  discovered  that  the 
incident  had  made  him  in  the  least  gun-shy. 

Whenever  the  history  of  the  Territory  of  New 
Mexico  comes  to  be  written,  the  name  of  Colonel  Al- 
bert J.  Fountain  deserves  and  should  have  first  place 
in  it.  Throughout  the  formative  epoch  of  her  evo- 
lution from  semi-savagery  to  civilization,  an  epoch 
spanning  the  years  from  1866  to  1896,  Colonel  Foun- 
tain was  far  and  away  her  most  distinguished  and 
most  useful  citizen.  As  soldier,  scholar,  dramatist, 
lawyer,  prosecutor,  Indian  fighter,  and  desperado- 
[98] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

hunter,  his  was  the  most  picturesque  personality  I 
have  ever  known.  Gentle  and  kind-hearted  as  a  wo- 
man, a  lover  of  his  books  and  his  ease,  he  neverthe- 
less was  always  as  quick  to  take  up  arms  and  undergo 
any  hazard  and  hardship  in  pursuit  of  murderous 
rustlers  as  he  was  in  1861  to  join  the  California  Col- 
umn (First  California  Volunteers)  on  its  march 
across  the  burning  deserts  of  Arizona  to  meet  and 
defeat  Sibley  at  Val  Verde.  A  face  fuller  of  the  hu- 
manities and  charities  of  life  than  his  would  be  hard 
to  find;  but,  roused,  the  laughing  eyes  shone  cold  as 
a  wintry  sky.  He  despised  wrong,  and  hated  the 
criminal,  and  spent  his  whole  life  trying  to  right  the 
one  and  suppress  or  exterminate  the  other.  In  this 
work,  and  of  it,  ultimately,  he  lost  his  life. 

In  the  early  eighties,  while  the  New  Mexican  courts 
were  well-nigh  idle,  crime  was  rampant,  especially  in 
Lincoln,  Dona  Ana,  and  Grant  Counties.  To  the 
east  of  the  Rio  Grande  the  Lincoln  County  War  was 
at  its  height,  while  to  the  west  the  Jack  Kinney  gang 
took  whatever  they  wanted  at  the  muzzle  of  their  guns  ; 
and  they  wanted  about  everything  in  sight.  County 
peace  officers  were  powerless. 

At  this  stage  Fountain  was  appointed  by  the  Gov- 
ernor "Colonel  of  State  Militia,"  and  given  a  free 
hand  to  pacify  the  country.  As  an  organized  mili- 
tary body,  the  militia  existed  only  in  name.  And  so 
Fountain  left  it.  Serious  and  effective  as  was  his 
[99] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

work,  no  man  loved  a  grand-stand  play  more  than  he. 
He  liked  to  go  it  alone,  to  be  the  only  thing  in  the 
spot  light.  Thus  most  of  his  work  as  a  desperado- 
hunter  was  done  single-handed. 

On  only  one  occasion  that  I  can  recall  did  he  ever 
have  with  him  on  his  raids  more  than  one  or  two  men, 
always  Mexicans,  temporarily  deputized.  That  was 
when  he  met  and  cleaned  out  the  Kinney  gang  over 
on  the  Miembres,  and  did  it  with  half  the  number  of 
the  men  he  was  after.  Among  those  who  escaped  was 
Kinney's  lieutenant.  A  few  weeks  later  Colonel 
Fountain  learned  that  this  man  was  in  hiding  at  Con- 
cordia,  a  placita  two  miles  below  El  Paso.  He  was 
one  of  the  most  desperate  Mexican  outlaws  the  border 
has  ever  known,  a  man  who  had  boasted  he  would 
never  be  taken  alive,  and  that  he  would  kill  Fountain 
before  he  was  himself  taken  dead,  a  human  tiger, 
whom  the  bravest  peace  officer  might  be  pardoned  for 
wanting  a  great  deal  of  help  to  take.  Yet  Fountain 
merely  took  his  armory's  best  and  undertook  it  alone : 
and  by  mid-afternoon  of  the  very  next  day  after  the 
information  reached  him  he  had  his  man  safely  man- 
acled at  the  El  Paso  depot  of  the  Santa  Fe  Railway. 

While  waiting  for  the  train,  Colonel  George  Bay- 
lor, the  famous  Captain  of  Texas  Rangers,  chided 
Fountain  for  not  wearing  a  cord  to  fasten  his  pistol 
to  his  belt,  as  then  did  all  the  Rangers,  to  prevent  its 
loss  from  the  scabbard  in  a  running  fight ;  and  he  fin- 
[100] 


TRIGGERFJNGERITIS 

ished  by  detaching  his  own  cord,  and  looping  one  end 
to  Fountain's  belt  and  the  other  to  his  pistol.  Then 
Fountain  bade  his  old  friend  good-bye  and  boarded 
the  train  with  his  prisoner,  taking  a  seat  near  .the 
centre  of  the  rear  car. 

When  well  north  of  Canutillo  and  near  the  site 
of  old  Fort  Fillmore,  Fountain  rose  and  passed  for- 
ward to  speak  to  a  friend  who  was  sitting  a  few  seats 
in  front  of  him,  a  safe  enough  proceeding,  appar- 
ently, with  his  prisoner  handcuffed  and  the  train  do- 
ing thirty-five  miles  an  hour.  But  scarcely  had  he 
reached  his  friend's  side,  when  a  noise  behind  him 
caused  him  to  turn  —  just  in  time  to  see  his  Mexican 
running  for  the  rear  door.  Instantly  Fountain 
sprang  after  him,  but  before  he  got  to  the  door  the 
man  had  leaped  from  the  platform.  Without  the 
slightest  hesitation,  Fountain  jumped  after  him,  hit- 
ting the  ground  only  a  few  seconds  behind  him  but 
thirty  or  forty  yards  away,  rolling  like  a  tumble- 
weed  along  the  ground.  By  the  time  Fountain  had 
regained  his  feet,  his  prisoner  was  running  at  top 
speed  for  the  mesquite  thickets  lining  the  river,  in 
whose  shadows  he  must  soon  disappear,  for  it  was 
already  dusk.  Reaching  for  his  pistol  and  finding  it 
gone  —  lost  evidently  in  the  tumble  —  and  fearing  to 
lose  his  prisoner  entirely  if  he  stopped  to  hunt  for  it, 
Fountain  hit  the  best  pace  he  could  in  pursuit.  But 
almost  at  the  first  jump  something  gave  him  a  thump 
[101] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

on  the  shin  that  nearly  broke  it,  and,  looking  down, 
there,  dangling  on  Colonel  Baylor's  pistol-cord,  he 
saw  his  gun. 

Always  a  cunning  strategist,  Fountain  dropped  to 
the  ground,  sky-lined  his  man  on  the  crest  of  a  little 
hillock  he  had  to  cross,  and  took  a  careful  two-handed 
aim,  which  enabled  Rio  Grande  ranchers  thereafter 
to  sleep  easier  of  nights. 

And  now,  just  as  I  am  finishing  this  story,  the 
wires  bring  the  sad  news  that  dear  old  Pat  Garrett, 
the  dean  and  almost  the  last  survivor  of  the  famous 
man-hunters  of  west  Texas  and  New  Mexico,  has 
gone  the  way  of  his  kind  — "  died  with  his  boots  on." 
I  cannot  help  believing  that  he  was  the  victim  of  a 
foul  shot,  for  in  his  personal  relations  I  never  knew 
him  to  court  a  quarrel  or  fail  to  get  an  adversary. 
Many  a  night  we  have  camped,  eaten,  and  slept  to- 
gether. Barring  Colonel  Fountain,  Pat  Garrett  had 
stronger  intellectuality  and  broader  sympathies  than 
any  of  his  kind  I  ever  met.  He  could  no  more  do 
enough  for  a  friend  than  he  could  do  enough  to  an 
outlaw.  In  his  private  affairs  so  easy-going  that  he 
began  and  ended  a  ne'er-do-well,  in  his  official  duties 
as  a  peace  officer  he  was  so  exacting  and  painstaking 
that  he  ne'er  did  ill.  His  many  intrepid  deeds  are 
too  well  known  to  need  recounting  here. 

All  his  life  an  atheist,  he  was  as  stubbornly  eon- 
[102] 


TRIGGERFINGERITIS 

tentious  for  his  unbelief  as  any  Scotch  Covenanter 
for  his  best-loved  tenets. 

Now,  laid  for  his  last  rest  in  the  little  burying- 
ground  of  Las  Cruces,  a  tiny,  white-paled  square  of 
sandy,  hummocky  bench  land  where  the  pink  of  frag- 
ile nopal  petals  brightens  the  graves  in  Spring  and 
the  mesquite  showers  them  with  its  golden  pods  in 
Summer;  where  the  sweet  scent  of  the  juajilla  loads 
the  air,  and  the  sun  ever  shines  down  out  of  a  bright 
and  cloudless  sky ;  where  a  diminutive  forest  of  crosses 
of  wood  and  stone  symbolize  the  faith  he  in  life  re- 
fused to  accept  —  now,  perhaps,  Pat  Garrett  has 
learned  how  widely  he  was  wrong. 

Peace  to  his  ashes,  and  repose  to  his  dauntless 
spirit ! 


[103] 


CHAPTER  V 

A   JUGGLER  WITH   DEATH 

THIS  is  the  story  of  a  man,  a  virile,  strong,  re- 
sourceful man,  all  of  whose  history  from  his 
youth  to  his  untimely  death  thrills  one  at  the 
reading  and  points  lessons  worth  learning. 

The  most  careful  study  and  the  most  just  compari- 
son would  doubtless  concede  to  Washington  Harrison 
Donaldson  the  high  rank  —  high,  indeed,  in  a  double 
sense  —  of  having  been  the  greatest  aeronaut  the 
world  has  ever  known. 

While  a  few  men  have  done  some  great  deeds  in 
aeronautics  which  he  did  not  accomplish,  nevertheless 
Donaldson  did  more  things  never  even  undertaken 
by  any  other  aeronaut  than  any  man  who  has  ever 
lived.  Indeed,  much  of  his  work  would  be  deemed  by 
mankind  at  large  downright  absurd,  hair-brained, 
foolhardy,  and  reckless  to  the  point  of  actual  mad- 
ness; and  yet  no  man  ever  possessed  a  saner  mind 
than  Donaldson ;  no  man  was  ever  more  fond  of  fam- 
ily, friends,  and  life  in  general,  or  normally  more 
reluctant  to  undertake  what  he  regarded  as  a  need- 
lessly hazardous  task.  His  boldest  and  most  seem- 
ingly reckless  feats  were  to  him  no  more  than  the 
[104] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

everyday  work  of  a  man  of  a  strong  mind,  of  a  stout 
heart,  and  of  a  perfectly  trained  body,  who  had  so 
completely  mastered  every  detail  of  his  profession  as 
gymnast,  acrobat,  and  aeronaut,  that  he  had  come  to 
have  absolute  faith  in  himself,  downright  abiding  cer- 
tainty that  within  his  sphere  of  work  not  only  must 
he  succeed,  but  that,  in  the  very  nature  of  things  it 
was  quite  impossible  for  him  to  fail. 

Donaldson's  story  may  well  serve  as  an  inspira- 
tion, as  does  that  of  every  man  who,  with  a  cool  head 
and  high  courage,  takes  his  life  in  his  hands  for 
adventure  into  the  world's  untrodden  fields.  While 
he  was  regarded  by  average  onlookers  as  little  better 
than  a  "Merry  Andrew,"  a  public  shocker,  doing 
feats  before  the  multitude  to  still  the  heart  and  freeze 
the  blood,  those  whose  fortune  it  was  to  know  him 
intimately  realized  him  to  be  a  man  of  the  most  seri- 
ous purpose,  with  a  great  faith  in  the  future  of  aerial 
navigation.  He  seemed  to  be  possessed  by  the  con- 
viction that  it  was  one  day  to  become  wholly  practi- 
cable and  generally  useful;  for  he  was  keen  to  do  all 
he  could  to  popularize  and  advance  it,  and  to  demon- 
strate its  large  measure  of  safety  where  practised 
under  reasonable  conditions. 

To  many  still  living  his  memory  is  dear  —  to  all  in- 
deed who  ever  knew  him  well,  and  it  is  to  his  memory 
and  to  the  surviving  friends  who  held  him  dear  I  dedi- 
cate this  little  story. 

[105] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Washington  Harrison  Donaldson  was  the  son  of 
David  L.  Donaldson,  an  artist  of  no  mean  ability  of 
Philadelphia,  where  the  boy  was  born  October  10, 
1840.  The  mother,  of  straight  descent  from  a  line 
of  patriots  active  during  the  Revolution,  gave  the  boy 
the  name  of  Washington;  the  father,  an  ardent 
worker  for  General  Harrison's  candidacy  for  the 
presidency  in  the  "  Tippecanoe-and-Tyler-too  "  cam- 
paign, added  the  name  of  Harrison.  It  is  not  incon- 
ceivable that  this  christening  with  two  names  so  closely 
linked  with  notable  deeds  of  high  emprise  in  the  early 
history  of  this  country,  had  its  influence  upon  the 
boy. 

As  a  mere  youth  he  showed  the  most  adventurous 
spirit  and  ardent  ambition  to  excel  his  mates,  to  do 
deeds  of  skill  and  dexterity  that  others  could  not  do. 
When  still  a  child  he  was  running  up  an  unsupported 
eight-foot  ladder,  and  balancing  himself  upon  the 
topmost  round  in  a  way  to  startle  the  cleverest  pro- 
fessional athletes.  A  little  later,  getting  hold  of  any 
old  rope,  stretching  it  in  any  old  way  as  a  "  slack 
rope,"  he  was  busy  perfecting  himself  as  a  slack-rope 
walker.  Naturally,  school  held  him  only  a  very  few 
years,  for  his  type  of  mind  obviously  was  not  that  of 
a  student. 

While  still  in  early  youth,  he  got  his  father's  con- 
sent to  work  in  the  parental  studio,  and  persevered 
long  enough  to  acquire  some  ability  in  sketching. 
[106] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

Later  he  employed  this  art  in  illustrating  some  of  his 
aerial  voyages.  During  these  studio  days  he  studied 
legerdemain  and  ventriloquism,  and  became  one  of 
the  most  expert  sleight-of-hand  wizards  and  ventrilo- 
quial  entertainers  of  his  time. 

Donaldson's  first  appearance  before  the  public  was 
at  the  old  Long's  Varieties  on  South  Third  Street 
in  Philadelphia.  His  feats  as  a  rope-walker  have 
probably  never  been  surpassed.  In  1862  a  rope 
twelve  hundred  feet  long  was  stretched  across  the 
Schuylkill  River  at  Philadelphia  at  a  height  of  twelve 
hundred  feet  above  the  water.  After  passing  back 
and  forth  repeatedly  over  this  rope,  he  finished  his 
exhibition  by  leaping  from  a  rope  into  the  river  from 
a  height  of  approximately  ninety  feet.  Two  years 
later  he  successfully  walked  a  rope  eighteen  hundred 
feet  long  and  two  hundred  feet  high,  stretched  across 
the  Genesee  Falls  at  Rochester,  N.  Y.  Five  years 
later  he  was  riding  a  velocipede  on  a  tight-wire  from 
stage  to  gallery  of  a  Philadelphia  theatre,  the  first  to 
do  this  performance. 

Thus  his  years  were  spent  between  1857  and  1871 ; 
and  great  as  were  the  dangers  and  severe  the  tasks 
incident  to  this  period  of  his  career,  to  him  it  was  not 
work  but  the  play  he  loved.  While  the  work  in  itself 
was  not  one  to  emulate  —  for  there  are  perhaps  few 
less  useful  tasks  than  those  that  made  up  his  occu- 
pation—  nevertheless,  he  was  training  himself  for  his 
[107] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

career ;  and  the  absolute  mastery  over  it  which  he  ac- 
complished, the  boldness  with  which  he  did  it,  the 
readiness,  certainty,  and  complete  success  with  which 
he  carried  out  everything  he  undertook  make  a  lesson 
worth  studying. 

Donaldson's  career  as  an  aeronaut  was  brief.  His 
first  ascent  was  made  August  30,  1871 ;  his  last,  July 
15,  1875.  The  story  of  the  first  is  characteristic  of 
the  man.  In  his  lexicon  there  was  no  such  word  as 
"fail."  His  balloon  was  small,  holding  only  eight 
thousand  cubic  feet  of  gas.  The  gas  was  of  poor 
quality,  and  when  ready  to  rise  he  found  it  impossible 
even  to  make  a  start  until  all  ballast  had  been  thrown 
from  the  basket;  and  when  at  length  the  start  was 
made,  it  was  only  to  alight  in  a  few  minutes  on  the 
roof  of  a  neighboring  house.  Bent  upon  winning 
and  doing  at  all  hazards  what  he  had  undertaken, 
Donaldson  quickly  cast  overboard  all  loose  objects  in 
the  basket  —  ropes,  anchors,  provisions,  even  down 
to  his  boots  and  coat.  Thus  relieved  of  weight,  he 
was  able  to  make  a  voyage  of  about  eighteen 
miles. 

There  are  two  essentials  to  safe  ballooning:  first, 
the  easy  working  of  the  cord  which  controls  the  safety 
valve  at  the  top  of  the  netting,  by  which  descent  may 
be  effected  when  the  balloon  is  going  too  high;  and 
surplus  ballast,  which  may  be  thrown  out  to  lighten 
the  balloon  when  approaching  the  ground,  to 
[108] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

avoid  striking  the  earth  at  dangerously  rapid  speed. 
Hence  it  followed  that,  his  car  having  been  stripped 
of  every  bit  of  weight  to  obtain  the  ascent,  Donald- 
son's descent  was  so  violent  that  he  was  not  a  little 
bruised  before  he  got  his  balloon  safely  anchored 
again  upon  the  earth. 

The  difficulties  and  risks  of  this  first  trip,  arising 
from  the  poor  appliances  he  had,  were  enough  to 
discourage,  if  not  deter,  a  heart  less  bold  than  his, 
but  to  him  a  new  difficulty  only  meant  the  letting  out 
of  another  reef  in  his  resolution  to  conquer  it.  Thus 
it  was  that  immediately  upon  his  return  from  this,  his 
first  trip,  he  not  only  announced  that  he  would  make 
another  ascent  the  ensuing  week,  but  that  he  would 
undertake  something  never  previously  undertaken  in 
aerial  navigation,  namely,  that  he  would  dispense  with 
the  basket  or  car  swung  beneath  the  concentrating  ring 
of  every  normal  balloon,  and  in  its  place  would  have 
nothing  but  a  simple  trapeze  bar  suspended  beneath 
the  ring,  upon  which  in  mid-air,  at  high  altitude,  he 
proposed  to  perform  all  feats  done  by  the  most  highly 
trained  gymnasts  in  trapeze  performances. 

His  experience  on  this  first  trip,  to  quote  his  own 
phraseology,  was  "so  glorious  that  I  decided  to 
abandon  the  tight-rope  forever." 

The  second  ascent  was  made  in  a  light  breeze. 
When  approximately  a  mile  in  height,  to  quote  a 
chronicler : 

[109] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

"Suddenly  the  aeronaut  threw  himself  backward  and 
fell,  catching  with  his  feet  on  the  bar,  thus  sending  a 
thrill  through  the  crowd ;  but  with  another  spring  he  was 
upstanding  on  the  bar,  and  then  followed  one  feat  after 
another  —  hanging  by  one  hand,  one  foot,  by  the  back  of 
his  head,  etc.,  until  the  blood  ceased  to  curdle  in  the 
veins  of  the  awe-stricken  crowd,  and  they  gave  vent  to 
their  feelings  in  cheer  after  cheer.  His  glittering  dress 
sparkled  in  the  sun  long  after  his  outline  was  lost  to  the 
naked  eye." 

Intending  no  long  journey,  Donaldson  climbed 
from  the  trapeze  into  the  concentrating  ring,  where 
he  seized  the  cord  operating  the  safety  valve  and 
sought  to  open  the  valve.  But  the  valve  stuck  and  did 
not  open  readily,  thus  when  Donaldson  gave  a  more 
violent  tug  at  the  cord  in  his  effort  to  open  the  valve, 
a  great  rent  was  torn  in  the  top  of  the  gas  bag, 
through  which  the  gas  poured,  causing  the  balloon  to 
fall  with  appalling  rapidity.  Long  afterwards  Don- 
aldson said  that  this  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that 
he  had  ever  felt  actually  afraid.  Luckily  he  dropped 
into  the  top  of  a  large  tree,  which  broke  his  fall  suf- 
ficiently to  enable  him  to  land  without  any  serious 
injury. 

Donaldson's  sincerity  and  downright  joy  in  his 
work,  and  the  poetic  temperament,  which  in  him  was 
always  struggling  for  utterance,  are  pointed  out  by 
a  chronicler  in  the  words  added  by  him  to  the  descrip- 
tion Donaldson  gave  of  his  trip  after  his  return  to 
Norfolk  in  1872: 

[110] 


I  climbed  half-way  up  the  netting,  opened  my  knife  with 
my  teeth,  and  cut  a  hole  about  two  feet  long  " 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

"The  people  of  Norfolk  cannot  form  the  remotest 
conception  of  the  grand  appearance  of  Norfolk  from  a 
balloon.  The  city  looks  almost  surrounded  by  water, 
and  the  various  tributaries  to  the  Elizabeth  River  ap- 
pear magnificently  beautiful,  looking  like  streams  of 
silver.  Floating  over  a  field  of  foliage,  the  trees  appear 
all  blended  together  like  blades  of  grass." 

The  chronicler  adds: 

"Donaldson  seemed  to  be  perfectly  enraptured  by  his 
subject,  as  was  evinced  by  the  beaming  expression  of  his 
countenance  while  relating  his  experience.  The  motion 
of  the  balloon  he  describes  as  delightful,  particularly  in 
ascent,  as  it  appears  to  be  perfectly  motionless,  and 
every  object  within  view  beneath  looks  as  if  it  were  re- 
ceding from  you." 

As  a  token  of  appreciation  of  this  particular  ex- 
ploit, a  handsome  gold  medal  was  given  to  Donaldson 
by  the  citizens  of  Norfolk. 

A  later  ascent  from  Norfolk  resulted  in  one  of  the 
most  perilous  experiences  ever  endured  by  any  aero- 
naut, and  indeed  developed  conditions  from  which 
none  could  possibly  have  hoped  to  escape  with  life 
except  a  perfectly  trained  and  fearless  aeronaut. 
His  experience  on  this  trip  he  told  as  follows: 

"After  cutting  the  basket  loose,  the  balloon  shot  up 
very  rapidly.  I  pulled  the  valve  cord  and  the  gas 
escaped  too  freely.  I  was  then  almost  at  the  water's 
edge,  and  going  at  the  rate  of  one  mile  a  minute.  Quick 
work  must  be  done,  or  a  watery  grave.  I  had  either  to 
cut  a  hole  in  the  balloon  or  go  to  sea,  and  as  there  were 
no  boats  in  sight,  I  chose  the  lesser  evil.  Seizing  three 
of  the  cords,  I  swung  out  of  the  ring,  into  the  netting, 
the  balloon  careening  on  her  side.  I  climbed  half  way 
up  the  netting,  opened  my  knife  with  my  teeth,  and  cut 
a  hole  about  two  feet  long.  The  instant  I  cut  the  hole 

[in] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

the  gas  rushed  out  so  fast  that  I  could  scarcely  get  back 
to  the  ring.  After  reaching  the  ring  I  lashed  myself 
fast  to  it  with  a  rope.  While  I  was  climbing  up  the  rig- 
ging to  cut  the  hole  in  the  side  of  the  balloon,  my  cap 
fell  off,  and  so  fast  did  I  descend  that  before  I  got  half 
way  down  I  caught  up  with  and  passed  the  cap.  Con- 
tinuing to  descend,  I  struck  the  ground  in  a  large  corn 
field,  and  was  dragged  nearly  a  thousand  feet,  the  wind 
blowing  a  perfect  gale.  Crashing  against  a  rail  fence, 
I  was  rendered  insensible.  When  I  came  to,  I  found 
myself  hanging  to  one  side  of  a  tree,  and  the  balloon 
to  the  other  side,  ripped  to  shreds.  This  was  the  last 
tree.  I  could  have  thrown  a  stone  into  the  ocean  from 
where  I  landed.  On  this  trip  I  travelled  ten  miles  in 
seven  minutes. 

"Many  want  to  know  if  the  wind  blows  hard  up  there. 
They  do  not  stop  to  think  that  I  am  carried  by  the  wind, 
and  whether  I  am  in  a  dead  calm  or  sailing  at  the  rate 
of  one  hundred  miles  an  hour,  I  am  perfectly  still;  and 
when  I  went  the  ten  miles  in  seven  minutes  I  did  not 
feel  the  slightest  breeze ;  and  when  I  cannot  see  the  earth 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  whether  I  am  going  or  hanging 
still." 

Just  as  Donaldson  was  a  bit  of  an  artist  and  left 
many  sketches  illustrating  his  experiences,  so  also  he 
was  a  bit  of  a  poet  and  left  many  pieces  describing  in 
lofty  thought,  but  crude  versification,  the  sentiments 
inspired  by  his  ascents.  The  following  is  one  of 
them: 

"There's  pleasure  in  a  lively  trip  when  sailing  through 

the  air, 
The  word  is  given,  'Let  her  go!'  To  land  I  know  not 

where ; 
The  view  is  grand,  'tis  like  a  dream,  when  many  miles 

from  home. 
My  castle  in  the  air,  I  love  above  the  clouds  to  roam." 

[112] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

In  prose  Donaldson  was  very  much  more  at  home 
than  in  verse;  indeed  many  of  his  descriptions  equal 
in  clearness  and  beauty  anything  ever  written  of  the 
impressions  that  come  to  fliers  in  cloudland.  Take, 
for  example,  the  following: 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  be  up  here,  as  I  sit  and  look  at  the 
grand  cloud  pictures,  the  most  splendid  effects  of  light, 
unknown  to  all  that  cling  to  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
The  ever-shifting  scenes,  the  bright,  dazzling  colors,  the 
soft  roseate  and  purple  hues,  the  sudden  light  and  fiery 
sun  .  .  .  and  on  I  go  as  if  carried  by  spiritual 
wings,  far  above  the  diminutive  objects  of  a  liliputian 
world.  We  rise  in  the  midst  of  splendor,  where  light  and 
silence  combine  to  make  one  wish  he  never  need  return." 

Donaldson  was  a  many-sided  man  —  among  other 
things,  in  no  small  measure  a  philosopher,  as  when 
he  commented  as  follows: 

"I  have  noticed  on  different  occasions  a  class  of  people 
who  were  only  half  alive  and  who  find  fault  with  my  ex- 
ercise, which  to  them  looks  frightful.  Their  nervous 
system  is  not  properly  balanced.  They  have  too  much 
nerves  for  their  system,  which  is  caused  by  want  of  a 
little  moderate  exercise  up  where  the  air  is  pure,  instead 
of  which  they  spend  hours  in  a  place  which  they  call 
their  office.  They  sit  themselves  in  a  dark  corner,  hidden 
from  the  sun's  rays,  and  in  one  position  remain  for 
hours,  inhaling  the  poisonous  air  with  the  room  full  of 
carbonic  acid  gas,  which  is  as  poisonous  to  man  as 
arsenic  is  to  rats;  and  in  addition  to  this,  will  fill  their 
lungs  with  tobacco  smoke,  and  to  steady  their  nerves  re- 
quire a  stimulation  of  perhaps  eight  or  ten  brandies  a 
day.  If  I  were  as  helpless  as  this  class  of  people,  then 
my  life  would  be  swinging  by  a  thread,  and  I  would  wind 
up  with  a  broken  neck." 

[113] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

About  as  sound  philosophy  and  scientific  hygiene 
as  could  well  be  found. 

And  yet  another  side  to  his  character:  the  kindly 
nature,  the  gentleness  and  generous  thought  for  oth- 
ers, the  reluctance  to  cause  needless  injury  or  pain, 
which  is  always  the  characteristic  of  any  man  of  real 
courage.  This  beautiful  side  of  his  nature  he  once 
hinted  at  as  follows: 

"I  cannot  look  at  a  person  cutting  a  chicken's  head 
off,  and  as  for  shooting  a  poor,  innocent  bird  for  sport, 
I  think  it  is  a  great  wrong  and  should  not  be  allowed. 
Did  you  ever  think  what  a  barbarous  set  we  were — 
worse  than  Indians  or  Fiji  Islanders?  There  is  nothing 
living  but  what  we  torture  and  kill.  As  for  fear  .  .  . 
my  candid  opinion  is  that  the  only  time  one  is  out  of 
danger  is  when  sailing  through  the  air  in  a  balloon." 

Early  in  1873,  after  having  made  twenty-five  or 
thirty  ascents,  and  well-nigh  exhausted  people's  ca- 
pacity for  sensations  and  excitements  afforded  by 
ballooning  over  terra  firma,  Donaldson  began  making 
plans  for  a  balloon  of  a  capacity  and  equipment  ade- 
quate, in  his  judgment,  to  enable  him  to  make  a  suc- 
cessful crossing  of  the  Atlantic  to  England  or  the 
Continent.  So  soon  as  his  plans  became  publicly 
known,  Professor  John  Wise,  who  as  early  as  1843 
had  done  his  best  to  raise  the  funds  necessary  for  a 
transatlantic  journey  by  balloon,  joined  forces  with 
Donaldson,  and  together  they  made  application  to 
4he  authorities  of  the  city  of  Boston  for  an  adequate 
[114] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

appropriation.  This  was  voted  by  one  Board  but 
vetoed  by  another.  Thereupon,  The  Daily  Graphic 
took  up  their  proposition,  and  undertook  the  finan- 
cing of  the  expedition  under  a  formal  contract 
executed  June  27,  1873.  As  a  consequence  of  this  con- 
tract, Donaldson  proceeded  to  build  the  largest  bal- 
loon ever  constructed,  of  a  gas  capacity  of  600,000 
cubic  feet,  and  a  lifting  power  of  14,000  pounds. 
The  total  weight  of  the  balloon,  including  its  car,  life- 
boat, and  equipment,  was  7,100  pounds,  thus  leaving 
approximately  6,000  pounds  surplus  lifting  capacity 
for  ballast,  passengers,  etc. 

Of  course,  a  liberal  supply  of  provisions  was  to 
be  carried,  with  tools,  guns,  and  fishing  tackle,  to  be 
available  for  meeting  any  emergency  arising  from  a 
landing  in  a  wild,  unsettled  region.  Moreover,  a  care- 
fully selected  set  of  scientific  instruments  was  em- 
braced in  the  equipment  for  making  observations  and 
records  of  changing  conditions  en  route. 

The  inflation  of  this  aerial  monster  began  in 
Brooklyn  at  the  Capitoline  Grounds  September  10, 
1873.  A  high  wind  prevailed,  and  after  the  bag  had 
received  100,000  cubic  feet  of  gas,  she  became  so 
nearly  uncontrollable,  notwithstanding  300  men  and 
100  sacks  of  ballast,  each  sack  weighing  200  pounds, 
were  holding  her  down,  that  Donaldson  and  his  asso- 
ciates decided  to  empty  her. 

On  the  twelfth  of  September  inflation  was  again 
[115] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

undertaken,  although  a  high  wind  again  prevailed. 
When  something  more  than  half  full,  the  bag  burst, 
and  the  aeronauts  concluded  that  she  was  of  a  size 
impossible  to  handle.  The  bag  and  rigging  were 
thereupon  taken  in  hand,  and  she  was  reduced  one- 
half;  that  is,  to  a  capacity  of  300,000  cubic  feet  of 
gas. 

The  remodelling  was  finished  early  in  October,  and 
inflation  of  this  new  balloon  was  begun  at  1  p.  m.  on 
Sunday,  October  6,  and  by  10:30  p.  m.  of  that  day 
the  inflation  was  completed,  the  life-boat  was  at- 
tached, and  she  was  firmly  secured  for  the  night. 

At  nine  the  next  morning  the  crew  took  their  places 
in  the  boat.  Donaldson  as  aeronaut;  Alfred  Ford 
as  correspondent  for  the  Graphic;  George  Ashton 
Lunt,  an  experienced  seaman,  as  navigator.  Ascent 
was  made  without  incident,  the  balloon  drifting  first 
to  the  north,  and  then  to  the  southward  toward  Long 
Island  Sound. 

Unhappily  this  voyage  was  brief,  and  very  nearly 
tragical  in  its  finish.  About  noon  the  balloon  en- 
tered the  field  of  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain  of  extraor- 
dinary violence,  and  before  long  the  cordage,  etc., 
was  so  heavily  loaded  with  moisture,  that  although 
practically  all  available  ballast  was  disposed  of,  the 
balloon  descended  in  spite  of  them.  The  speed  of 
the  balloon  was  so  great  that  Donaldson  did  not  dare 
hazard  a  dash  against  some  house,  or  into  some  for- 
[116] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

est  or  other  obstacle,  but  selected  a  piece  of  open 
ground,  and  advised  his  companions  to  hang  by  their 
hands  over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  drop  at  the  word. 
The  word  at  length  given  by  Donaldson,  both  he  and 
Ford  dropped  —  a  distance  of  about  thirty  feet, 
happily  without  serious  injury  other  than  a  severe 
shaking  up.  Lunt,  curious  about  the  distance  and 
the  effect  of  such  a  fall,  as  well  as  unfamiliar  with  the 
action  of  a  balloon  when  relieved  of  weight,  hung 
watching  the  descent  of  his  companions  —  only  to 
realize  quickly  that  he  was  shooting  up  into  the  air 
like  a  rocket.  Then  he  clambered  back  into  the  boat. 
However,  it  was  not  long  before,  again  weighted  and 
beaten  down  by  the  continuing  rain,  the  balloon  de- 
scended upon  a  forest,  where  Lunt  swung  himself  into 
a  tree-top,  whence  he  dropped  through  its  branches 
to  the  earth,  practically  unhurt. 

Thus  ended  the  transatlantic  voyage  of  the 
Graphic  balloon,  a  voyage  that  constitutes  the  only 
serious  failure  I  can  recall  of  anything  in  the  line  of 
his  profession  as  an  aeronaut  that  Donaldson  ever 
undertook  to  do.  This  failure  is  not  to  be  counted 
to  his  discredit,  for  precisely  as  a  good  soldier  does 
not  surrender  until  his  last  round  of  ammunition  is 
spent,  so  Donaldson  did  not  give  in  until  his  last 
pound  of  ballast  was  exhausted. 

In  all  respects  the  most  brilliant  aerial  voyage  ever 
made  by  Donaldson  was  his  sixty-first  ascension,  on 

[  in  ] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

July  24,  1874,  a  voyage  which  continued  for  twenty- 
six  hours.  This  was  the  longest  balloon  voyage  in 
point  of  hours  ever  made  up  to  that  time,  and  indeed 
it  remained  a  world's  record  for  endurance  up  in  the 
air  until  1900,  and  the  endurance  record  in  the 
United  States,  until  the  recent  St.  Louis  Cup  Race. 

The  ascent  was  made  from  Barnum's  "  Great  Ro- 
man Hippodrome,"  which  for  some  years  occupied 
the  site  of  what  is  now  Madison  Square  Garden,  in  a 
balloon  built  by  Mr.  Barnum  to  attempt  to  break  the 
record  for  time  and  distance  of  all  previous  balloon 
voyages.  An  account  of  this  thrilling  trip  is  given 
in  the  following  chapter  of  this  book. 

The  history  of  the  ascent  Donaldson  made  from 
Toronto,  Canada,  on  June  23,  1875,  is  in  itself  a  suf- 
ficient refutation  of  the  charges  made  less  than  a 
month  later,  that  on  his  last  trip  he  sacrificed  his  pas- 
senger, Grimwood,  to  save  his  own  life.  On  his  To- 
ronto trip  he  was  accompanied  by  Charles  Pirie,  of 
the  Globe;  Mr.  Charles,  of  the  Leader;  and  Mr. 
Devine,  of  the  Advertiser.  On  this  occasion  Don- 
aldson accepted  the  three  passengers  under  the 
strongest  protest,  after  having  told  them  plainly  that 
the  balloon  was  leaky,  the  wind  blowing  out  upon  the 
lake,  and  that  the  ascent  must  necessarily  be  a  pecu- 
liarly dangerous  one.  Nevertheless,  they  decided  to 
take  the  hazard.  Later  they  regretted  their  temer- 
ity. Husbanding  his  ballast  as  best  he  could,  never- 
[118] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

theless,  the  loss  of  gas  through  leakage  was  such  that 
by  midnight,  when  well  over  the  centre  of  Lake  On- 
tario, the  balloon  descended  into  a  rough,  tempestuous 
sea,  and  was  saved  from  immediate  destruction  only 
by  the  cutting  away  of  both  the  anchor  and  the  drag 
rope.  This  gave  them  a  temporary  lease  of  life,  but 
at  one  o'clock  the  car  again  struck  the  waters  and 
dragged  at  a  frightful  speed  through  the  lake,  com- 
pelling the  passengers  to  stand  on  the  edge  of  the 
basket  and  cling  to  the  ropes,  the  cold  so  intense  they 
were  well-nigh  benumbed.  At  length  they  were  res- 
cued by  a  passing  boat,  but  this  was  not  until  after 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Of  Donaldson's  conduct  in  these  hours  of  terrible 
extremity,  a  passenger  wrote: 

"But  for  his  judicious  use  of  the  ballast,  his  complete 
control  of  the  balloon  as  far  as  it  could  be  controlled, 
his  steady  nerve,  kindness,  and  coolness  in  the  hour  of 
danger,  the  occupants  would  never  have  reached  land. 
.  .  .  The  party  took  no  provisions  with  them  except- 
ing two  small  pieces  of  bread  two  inches  square,  which 
Mr.  Devine  happened  to  have  in  his  pocket.  At  eleven  at 
night,  the  Professor,  having  had  nothing  but  a  noon 
lunch,  was  handed  up  the  bread.  .  .  .  About  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  basket  was  wholly  im- 
mersed in  the  water,  and  the  inmates  clinging  almost 
lifelessly  to  the  ropes,  the  Professor  climbed  down  to 
them,  and  they  were  surprised  to  see  in  his  hand  the  two 
small  pieces  of  bread  they  had  given  him  the  night  be- 
fore. He  had  hoarded  it  up  all  night,  and  instead  of 
eating  it  he  said  with  cheery  voice,  'Well,  boys,  all  is 
up.  Divide  this  among  you.  It  may  give  you  strength 
enough  to  swim.'  There  was  not  a  man  among  them  that 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

would  touch  it  until  the  Professor  first  partook  of  it.  It 
was  only  a  small  morsel  for  each.  .  .  .  He  said  that 
he  had  but  one  life-preserver  on  board,  and  suggested  we 
should  draw  lots  for  the  man  who  should  leave  and 
lighten  the  balloon." 

While  this  discussion  was  on,  the  boat  approached 
that  saved  them. 

This  simple  story  of  Donaldson's  true  courage, 
cheerfulness,  self-denial,  readiness  to  sacrifice  himself 
for  others,  is  no  less  than  an  epic  of  the  noblest  hero- 
ism that  stands  an  irrefutable  answer  to  the  charge 
later  made  that  Donaldson  sacrificed  Grimwood. 

Three  weeks  later  —  to  be  precise,  on  the  fifteenth 
of  July  —  Donaldson  and  his  beloved  airship,  the 
P.  T.  Barnum,  made  their  last  ascent,  from  Chicago. 
The  balloon  was  already  old  —  more  than  a  year  old 
—  the  canvas  weakened  and  in  many  places  rent  and 
patched,  the  cordage  frail.  In  short,  the  balloon  was 
in  poor  condition  to  stand  any  extraordinary  stress 
of  weather. 

His  companion  on  this  trip  was  Mr.  Newton  S. 
Grimwood,  of  The  Chicago  Evening  Journal.  Don- 
aldson had  expected  to  be  able  to  take  two  men ;  and 
Mr.  Maitland,  of  the  Post  cy  M ail,  was  present  with 
the  other  two  in  the  basket  immediately  before  the 
hour  of  starting.  At  the  last  moment  Donaldson 
concluded  that  it  was  unwise  to  take  more  than  one, 
and  required  lots  to  be  drawn.  Maitland  tossed  a 
coin,  called  "Heads,"  and  won;  but  Mr.  Thomas, 
[120] 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

the  press  agent,  insisted  that  the  usual  method  of 
drawing  written  slips  from  a  hat  be  followed,  and  on 
this  second  lot-casting  Maitland  lost  his  place  in  the 
car,  but  won  his  life. 

The  ascent  was  made  about  5  p.  m.,  the  prevailing 
wind  carrying  them  out  over  Lake  Michigan.  About 
7  p.  m.  a  tug-boat  sighted  the  balloon,  then  about 
thirty  miles  off  shore,  trailing  its  basket  along  the 
surface  of  the  lake.  The  tug  changed  her  course  to 
intercept  the  balloon,  but  before  it  was  reached,  prob- 
ably through  the  cutting  away  of  the  drag  rope  and 
anchor,  the  balloon  bounded  into  the  air,  and  soon 
disappeared,  and  never  again  was  aught  of  Donald- 
son or  the  balloon  Barnum  seen  by  human  eye.  A 
little  later  a  storm  of  extraordinary  fury  broke  over 
the  lake  —  a  violent  electric  storm  accompanied  by 
heavy  rain. 

Weeks  passed  with  no  news  of  the  voyagers  or  their 
ship.  A  month  later  the  body  of  Grimwood  was 
found  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Michigan  and  fully 
identified. 

The  precise  story  of  that  terrible  night  will  never 
be  written,  but  knowing  the  man  and  his  trade,  se- 
quence of  incident  is  as  plain  to  me  as  if  told  by  one 
of  the  voyagers.  Evidently  the  balloon  sprung  a 
leak  early.  The  last  ballast  must  have  been  spent 
before  the  tug  saw  her  trailing  in  the  lake.  Then 
anchor  and  drag  ropes  were  sacrificed.  This  would 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

inevitably  give  the  balloon  travelling  power  for  a 
considerable  time, —  time  of  course  depending  on  the 
measure  of  the  leak  of  gas, —  but  ultimately  she  must 
again  have  descended  upon  the  raging  waters  of  the 
lake,  where  Grimwood,  of  untrained  strength,  soon 
became  exhausted  while  trying  to  hold  himself  secure 
in  the  ring,  and  fell  out  into  the  lake.  Thus  again 
relieved  of  weight,  the  balloon  received  a  new  lease 
of  life,  and  travelled  on  probably,  to  a  fatal  final  de- 
scent in  some  untrodden  corner  of  the  northern  for- 
est, where  no  one  ever  has  chanced  to  stumble  across 
the  wreck.  For  had  the  balloon  made  its  final  de- 
scent into  the  lake,  it  would  have  been  only  after  the 
basket  was  utterly  empty,  all  the  loose  cordage  cut 
away,  and  a  type  of  wreck  left  that  would  float  for 
weeks  or  months  and  would  almost  certainly  have 
been  found.  Indeed,  for  months  afterwards  the 
writer  and  many  others  of  Donaldson's  friends  held 
high  hopes  of  hearing  of  him  returned  in  safety  from 
some  remote  distance  in  the  wilds.  But  this  was  not 
to  be. 

One  more  incident  and  I  have  done. 

Six  or  seven  years  ago  I  read  in  the  columns  of 
the  Sun  an  article  copied  from  a  Chicago  paper,  evi- 
dently written  by  some  close  friend  of  the  unfortunate 
Grimwood,  making  a  bitter  attack  upon  Donaldson 
for  having  sacrificed  his  passenger's  life  to  save  his 
own.  The  story  moved  me  so  much  that  I  wrote 


A  JUGGLER  WITH  DEATH 

an  open  letter  to  the  Sun  over  my  own  signature,  in 
which  I  sought  to  refute  the  charge  by  recounting  the 
story  of  Donaldson's  noble  conduct,  and  his  constant 
readiness  for  self -sacrifice  in  other  situations  quite 
as  dire. 

A  few  days  later,  sitting  in  my  office,  I  was  frozen 
with  astonishment  when  a  written  card  was  handed 
in  to  me  bearing  the  name  "  Washington  H.  Donald- 
son " !  As  soon  as  I  could  recover  myself,  the  bearer 
of  the  card  was  asked  in.  He  was  a  man  within 
a  year  or  two  of  my  friend's  age  at  the  time  of  his 
death,  Wash  Donaldson's  very  self  in  face  and  figure ! 
He  had  the  same  bright,  piercing  eye,  that  looked 
straight  into  mine;  the  same  lean,  square  jaws  and 
resolute  mouth;  the  same  waving  hair,  the  same  low, 
cool,  steady  voice  —  such  a  resemblance  as  to  dull  my 
senses,  and  make  me  wonder  and  grope  to  understand 
how  my  friend  could  thus  come  back  to  me,  still  young 
after  so  many  years. 

It  was  Donaldson's  son,  a  babe  in  arms  at  the  time 
his  father  sailed  away  to  his  death! 

In  a  few  simple  words  he  told  me  that  he  and  his 
family  lived  in  a  small  village.  With  infinite  grief 
they  had  read  the  article  charging  his  father  with 
unmanly  conduct  —  a  grief  that  was  the  greater  be- 
cause they  possessed  no  means  to  refute  the  charge. 
Brokenly,  with  tears  of  gratitude,  he  told  of  their 
joy  in  reading  my  statements  in  his  father's  defence, 
[123] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

and  how  he  had  been  impelled  to  come  and  try  in 
person  to  express  to  me  the  gratitude  he  felt  he  could 
not  write. 

Poor  though  this  man  may  be  in  this  world's  goods, 
in  the  record  of  his  father's  character  and  deeds  he 
owns  a  legacy  fit  to  give  him  place  among  the  Peers 
of  Real  Manhood. 

Through  some  mischance  I  have  lost  the  address 
of  Donaldson's  son.  Should  he  happen  to  read  these 
nnes  I  hope  he  will  communicate  with  me. 


[124] 


CHAPTER  VI 

AN  AERIAL   BIVOUAC 

IN  the  history  of  contests  since  man  first  began 
striving  against  his  fellows,  seldom  has  a  record 
performance  stood  so  long  unbroken  as  that  of 
the  good  airship  Barnum*  made  thirty-three  years 
ago.     Of  her  captain  and  crew  of  five  men,  six  all 
told,  the  writer  remains  the  sole  survivor,  the  only 
one  who  may  live  to  see  that  record  broken  in  this 
country. 

The  Barnum  rose  at  4  p.  m.  July  £6,  1874,  from 
New  York  and  made  her  last  landing  nine  miles  north 
of  Saratoga  at  6 :07  p.  m.  of  the  twenty-seventh,  thus 
finishing  a  voyage  of  a  total  elapsed  time  of  twenty- 
six  hours  and  seven  minutes.  In  the  interim  she  made 
four  landings,  the  first  of  no  more  than  ten  minutes ; 
the  second,  twenty ;  the  third,  ten ;  the  fourth,  thirty- 
five;  and  these  descents  cost  an  expenditure  of  gas 
and  ballast  which  shortened  her  endurance  capacity 
by  at  least  two  or  three  hours. 

Tracing  on  a  map  her  actual  route  traversed,  gives 
a  total  distance  of  something  over  four  hundred 
miles,  which  gave  her  the  record  of  second  place  in 
the  history  of  long-distance  ballooning  in  this  coun- 
try, a  record  which  she  still  holds. 
[125] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

So  far  as  my  knowledge  of  the  art  goes,  and  I  have 
tried  to  read  all  of  its  history,  the  Barnum's  voyage 
of  twenty-six  hours,  seven  minutes  was  then  and  re- 
mained the  world's  endurance  record  until  1900 ;  and 
it  still  remains,  in  point  of  hours  up,  the  longest 
balloon  voyage  ever  made  in  the  United  States. 

The  longest  voyage  in  point  of  distance  ever  made 
in  this  country  was  that  of  John  Wise  and  La  Moun- 
tain, in  the  fifties,  from  St.  Louis,  Mo.,  to  Jefferson 
County,  N.  Y.,  a  distance  credited  under  the  old  cus- 
tom of  a  little  less  than  twelve  hundred  miles,  while 
the  actual  distance  under  the  new  rules  is  between 
eight  hundred  and  nine  hundred  miles,  the  time  being 
nineteen  hours.  This  voyage  also  remained,  I  believe, 
the  world's  record  for  distance  until  1900,  and  still 
remains  the  American  record  —  and  lucky,  indeed, 
will  be  the  aeronaut  who  beats  it. 

P.  T.  Barnum's  "Great  Roman  Hippodrome," 
now  for  many  years  Madison  Square  Garden,  was 
never  more  densely  crowded  than  on  the  afternoon  of 
July  26,  1874.  Early  in  the  Spring  of  that  year  Mr. 
Barnum  had  announced  the  building  of  a  balloon 
larger  than  any  theretofore  made  in  this  country. 
His  purpose  in  building  it  was  to  attempt  to  break  all 
previous  records  for  time  and  distance,  and  he  invited 
each  of  five  daily  city  papers  of  that  time  to  send  rep- 
resentatives on  the  voyage.  So  when  the  day  set  for 

[126] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

the  ascent  arrived,  not  only  was  the  old  Hippodrome 
packed  to  the  doors,  but  adjacent  streets  and  squares 
were  solid  black  with  people,  as  on  a  fete  day  like 
the  Dewey  parade. 

Happily  the  day  was  one  of  brilliant  sunshine 
and  clear  sky,  with  scarcely  a  cloud  above  the 
horizon. 

The  captain  of  the  Barnum  was  Washington  H. 
Donaldson,  by  far  the  most  brilliant  and  daring  pro- 
fessional aeronaut  of  his  day,  and  a  clever  athlete  and 
gymnast.  For  several  weeks  prior  to  the  ascent  of 
the  Barnum,  Donaldson  had  been  making  daily  short 
ascents  of  an  hour  or  two  from  the  Hippodrome  in  a 
small  balloon  —  as  a  feature  of  the  performance. 
Sometimes  he  ascended  in  a  basket,  at  other  times  with 
naught  but  a  trapeze  swinging  beneath  the  concen- 
trating ring  of  his  balloon,  himself  in  tights  perched 
easily  upon  the  bar  of  the  trapeze.  And  when  at  a 
height  to  suit  his  fancy  —  of  a  thousand  feet  or  more 
—  many  a  time  have  I  seen  him  do  every  difficult  feat 
of  trapeze  work  ever  done  above  the  security  of  a  net. 

Such  was  Donaldson,  a  man  utterly  fearless,  but 
reckless  only  when  alone,  of  a  steadfast,  cool  courage 
and  resource  when  responsible  for  the  safety  of  others 
that  made  him  the  man  out  of  a  million  best  worth 
trusting  in  any  emergency  where  a  bold  heart  and 
ready  wit  may  avert  disaster. 

[127] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Donaldson's  days  were  never  dull. 

The  day  preceding  our  ascent  his  balloon  was  re- 
leased with  insufficient  lifting  power.  As  soon  as  he 
rose  above  neighboring  roofs,  a  very  high  southeast 
wind  caught  him,  and,  before  he  had  time  to  throw 
out  ballast,  drove  his  basket  against  the  flagstaff  on 
the  Gilsey  House  with  such  violence  that  the  staff  was 
broken,  and  the  basket  momentarily  upset,  dumping 
two  ballast  bags  to  the  Broadway  sidewalk  where 
they  narrowly  missed  several  pedestrians. 

That  he  himself  was  not  dashed  to  death  was  a 
miracle.  But  to  him  this  was  no  more  than  a  bit 
unusual  incident  of  the  day's  work. 

The  reporters  assigned  as  mates  on  this  skylark 
in  the  Barnum  were  Alfred  Ford,  of  the  Graphic; 
Edmund  Lyons,  of  the  Sun;  Samuel  MacKeever,  of 
the  Herald;  W.  W.  Austin,  of  the  World  (every 
one  of  these  good  fellows  now  dead,  alas!)  and  my- 
self, representing  the  Tribune. 

Lyons,  MacKeever,  and  myself  were  novices  in  bal- 
looning, but  the  two  others  had  scored  their  bit  of 
aeronautic  experience.  Austin  had  made  an  ascent 
a  year  or  two  before  at  San  Francisco,  was  swept 
out  over  the  bay  before  he  could  make  a  landing, 
and,  through  some  mishap,  dropped  into  the  water 
midway  of  the  bay  and  well  out  toward  Golden  Gate, 
where  he  was  rescued  by  a  passing  boat.  Ford  had 

[128] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

made  several  balloon  voyages,  the  most  notable  in 
1873,  in  the  great  Graphic  balloon. 

After  the  voyage  of  the  Barnum  was  first  an- 
nounced and  it  became  known  that  the  Tribune  would 
have  a  pass,  everybody  on  the  staff  wanted  to  go. 
For  weeks  it  was  the  talk  of  the  office.  Even  grave 
graybeards  of  the  editorial  rooms  were  paying  court 
for  the  preference  to  Mr.  W.  F.  G.  Shanks,  that 
prince  of  an  earlier  generation  of  city  editors,  who  of 
course  controlled  the  assignment  of  the  pass.  But 
when  at  length  the  pass  came,  the  enthusiasm  and  anx- 
iety for  the  distinction  waned,  and  it  became  plain 
that  the  piece  of  paper  "  Good  for  One  Aerial  Trip, " 
etc.,  must  go  begging. 

At  that  time  I  was  assistant  night  city  editor,  and 
a  special  detail  to  interview  the  Man  in  the  Moon  was 
not  precisely  in  the  line  of  my  normal  duties.  I  was 
therefore  greatly  surprised  (to  put  it  conservatively) 
when,  the  morning  before  the  ascent,  Mr.  Shanks,  in 
whose  family  I  was  then  living,  routed  me  out  of  bed 
to  say: 

"  See  here,  Ted,  you  know  Barnum's  balloon  starts 
to-morrow  on  her  trial  for  the  record,  but  what  you 
don't  know  is  that  we  are  in  a  hole.  Before  the  ticket 
came  every  one  wanted  to  go,  from  John  R.  G.  Has- 
sard  down  to  the  office  boy.  Now  no  one  will  go — • 
all  have  funked  it,  and  I  suppose  you  will  want  to 
follow  suit!" 

[129] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Thus   diplomatically   put,   the   hinted   assignment 


not  to  be  refused  without  too  much  personal 
chagrin. 

So  it  happened  that  about  3  :30  p.  m.  the  next  day 
I  arrived  at  the  Hippodrome,  loaded  down  with  wraps 
and  a  heavy  basket  nigh  bursting  with  good  things 
to  eat  and  drink,  which  dear  Mrs.  Shanks  had  insisted 
on  providing. 

The  Barnum  was  already  filled  with  gas,  tugging 
at  her  leash  and  swaying  restlessly  as  if  eager  for  the 
start.  And  right  here,  at  first  sight  of  the  great 
sphere,  I  felt  more  nearly  a  downright  fright  than  at 
any  stage  of  the  actual  voyage  ;  the  balloon  appeared 
such  a  hopelessly  frail  fabric  to  support  even  its  own 
car  and  equipment.  The  light  cord  net  enclosing 
the  great  gas-bag  looked,  aloft,  where  it  towered 
above  the  roof,  little  more  substantial  than  a  film  of 
lace  ;  and  to  ascend  in  that  balloon  appeared  about  as 
safe  a  proposition  as  to  enmesh  a  lion  in  a  cobweb. 

Already  my  four  mates  for  the  voyage  were  assem- 
bled about  the  basket,  and  Donaldson  himself  was 
busy  with  the  last  details  of  the  equipment.  My 
weighty  lunch  basket  had  from  my  mates  even  a 
heartier  reception  than  I  received,  but  their  joy  over 
the  prospect  of  delving  into  its  generous  depths  was 
short-lived.  The  load  as  Donaldson  had  planned  it 
was  all  aboard,  weight  carefully  adjusted  to  what  he 

[130] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

considered  a  proper  excess  lifting  power  to  carry  us 
safely  up  above  any  chance  of  a  collision  with  another 
flagstaff,  as  on  the  day  before  above  the  Gilsey 
House.  Thus  the  basket  and  all  its  bounty  (save 
only  a  small  flask  of  brandy  I  smuggled  into  a  hip 
pocket)  were  given  to  a  passing  acrobat. 

At  4  p.  m.  the  old  Hippodrome  rang  with  applause ; 
a  brilliant  equestrian  act  had  just  been  finished. 
Suddenly  the  applause  ceased  and  that  awful  hush  fell 
upon  the  vast  audience  which  is  rarely  experienced 
except  in  the  presence  of  death  or  of  some  impending 
disaster !  We  had  been  seen  to  enter  the  basket,  and 
people  held  their  breath. 

Released,  the  balloon  bounded  seven  hundred  feet 
into  the  air,  stood  stationary  for  a  moment,  and  then 
drifted  northwest  before  the  prevailing  wind. 

In  this  prodigious  leap  there  was  naught  of  the 
disagreeable  sensation  one  experiences  in  a  rapidly 
rising  elevator.  Instead  it  rather  seemed  that  we 
were  standing  motionless,  stationary  in  space,  and 
that  the  earth  itself  had  gotten  loose  and  was  drop- 
ping away  beneath  us  to  depths  unknown.  Every 
cord  and  rope  of  the  huge  fabric  was  tensely  taut,  the 
basket  firm  and  solid  beneath  our  feet.  Indeed,  the 
balloon,  with  nothing  more  substantial  in  her  con- 
struction than  cloth  and  twine,  and  hempen  ropes  and 
willow  wands  (the  latter  forming  the  basket),  has 

[131] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

always,  while  floating  in  mid-air  free  of  the  drag 
rope's  tricks,  the  rigid  homogeneity  of  a  rock,  a  solid- 
ity that  quickly  inspires  the  most  timid  with  perfect 
confidence  in  her  security. 

Ballast  was  thrown  out  by  Donaldson, —  a  little. 
At  Seventh  Avenue  and  Forty-second  Street  our  alti- 
tude was  2,000  feet.  The  great  city  lay  beneath 
us  like  an  unrolled  scroll.  White  and  dusty,  the 
streets  looked  like  innumerable  strips  of  Morse  tele- 
graph paper  —  the  people  the  dots,  the  vehicles  the 
dashes.  Central  Park,  with  its  winding  waters,  was 
transformed  into  a  superb  mantle  of  dark  green  vel- 
vet splashed  with  silver,  worthy  of  a  royal  fete.  Be- 
hind us  lay  the  sea,  a  vast  field  of  glittering  silver. 
Before  us  lay  a  wide  expanse  of  Jersey's  hills  and 
dales  that  from  our  height  appeared  a  plain,  with 
many  a  reddish-gray  splash  upon  its  verdant 
stretches  that  indicated  a  village  or  a  town. 

Above  and  about  us  lay  an  immeasurable  space  of 
which  we  were  the  only  tenants,  and  over  which  we 
began  to  feel  a  grand  sense  of  dominion  that  wrapped 
us  as  in  royal  ermine:  if  we  were  not  lords  of  this 
aerial  manor,  pray,  then,  who  were?  Beneath  us,  lay 
—  home.  Should  we  ever  see  it  again?  This  thought 
I  am  sure  came  to  all  of  us.  I  know  it  came  to  me. 
But  the  perfect  steadiness  of  the  balloon  won  our 
confidence,  and  we  soon  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  grat- 

[132] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

ification  of  our  enviable  position ;  and  enviable  indeed 
it  was.  For  who  has  not  envied  the  eagle  his  power 
to  skim  the  tree-tops,  to  hover  above  Niagara,  to  cir- 
cle mountain  peaks,  to  poise  himself  aloft  and  survey 
creation,  or  to  mount  into  the  zenith  and  gaze  at  the 
sun? 

Indeed  our  sense  of  confidence  became  such  that, 
while  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  basket  to  reach  and 
pass  Donaldson  a  rope  he  asked  for,  I  leaned  so  far 
over  that  the  bottle  of  brandy  resting  in  my  hip 
pocket  slipped  out  and  fell  into  the  Hudson. 

Oddly,  Ford,  who  was  the  most  experienced  bal- 
loonist of  the  party  after  Donaldson  himself,  seemed 
most  nervous  and  timid,  but  it  was  naught  but  an 
expression  of  that  constitutional  trouble  (dizziness) 
so  many  have  when  looking  down  from  even  the  minor 
height  of  a  step-ladder.  In  all  the  long  hours  he  was 
with  us,  I  do  not  recall  his  once  standing  erect  in  the 
basket,  and  when  others  of  us  perched  upon  the  bas- 
ket's edge,  he  would  beg  us  to  come  down.  But  mind, 
there  was  no  lack  of  stark  courage  in  Alfred  Ford, 
sufficiently  proved  by  the  fact  that  he  never  missed 
a  chance  for  an  ascent. 

But  safe?  Confident?  Why,  before  we  were  up 
ten  minutes,  Lyons  and  MacKeever  were  sitting  on 
the  edge  of  the  basket,  with  one  hand  holding  to  a 
stay,  tossing  out  handfuls  of  small  tissue  paper  cir- 

[133] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

culars  bearing  "  News  from  the  Clouds."  Many- 
colored,  these  little  circulars  as  they  fell  beneath  us 
looked  like  a  flight  of  giant  butterflies,  and  we  kept 
on  throwing  out  handfuls  of  them  until  our  pilot 
warned  us  we  were  wasting  so  much  weight  we  should 
soon  be  out  of  easy  view  of  the  earth!  Indeed,  the 
balance  of  the  balloon  is  so  extremely  fine  that  when 
a  single  handful  of  these  little  tissue  circulars  was 
thrown  out,  increased  ascent  was  shown  on  the  dial 
of  our  aneroid  barometer! 

At  4 :30  p.  m.  we  had  drifted  out  over  the  Hudson 
at  an  altitude  of  2,500  feet.  Here  Donaldson  de- 
scended from  the  airy  perch  which  he  had  been  oc- 
cupying since  our  start  on  the  concentrating  ring, 
when  one  of  us  asked  how  long  he  expected  the  cruise 
to  last.  He  replied  that  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  sail 
the  Barnum  at  least  three  or  four  days. 

"But,"  he  added,  "I  shall  certainly  be  unable  to 
carry  all  of  you  for  so  long  a  journey,  and  shall  be 
compelled  to  drop  you  one  by  one.  So  you  had  best 
draw  lots  to  settle  whom  I  shall  drop  first,  and  in 
what  order  the  rest  shall  follow. " 

Sailing  then  2,500  feet  above  the  earth,  Lyons 
voiced  a  thought  racing  from  my  own  brain  for 
utterance  when  he  blurted  out:  "What  the  deuce 
do  you  mean  by  'drop'  us?"  Indeed,  the 
question  must  have  been  on  three  other  tongues  as 

[134] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

well,  for  Donaldson's  reply,  "Oh,  descend  to  the 
earth  and  let  you  step  out  then, "  was  greeted  by  all 
five  of  us  with  a  salvo  of  deep,  lusty  sighs  of  relief. 

Then  we  drew  lots  for  the  order  of  our  going,  Mac- 
Keever  drawing  first,  Austin  second,  Lyons  third, 
Ford  fourth,  and  I  fifth. 

Meantime,  beneath  us  on  the  river  vessels  which 
from  our  height  looked  like  the  toy  craft  on  the  lake 
in  Central  Park  were  whistling  a  shrill  salute  that, 
toned  down  by  the  distance,  was  really  not  unmusical. 

Having  crossed  the  Hudson  and  swept  above  Wee- 
hawken,  we  found  ourselves  cruising  northwest  over 
the  marshes  of  the  Hackensack. 

As  the  heat  of  the  declining  sun  lessened,  our  cool- 
ing gas  contracted  and  the  balloon  sank  steadily  until 
at  5 :10  we  were  250  feet  above  the  earth  and  100  feet 
of  our  great  drag  rope  was  trailing  on  the  ground. 
Within  hailing  distance  of  people  beneath  us,  a  curi- 
ous condition  was  observed.  We  could  hear  distinctly 
all  they  said,  though  we  could  not  make  them  under- 
stand a  word:  our  voices  had  to  fill  a  sphere  of  air; 
theirs,  with  the  earth  beneath  them,  only  a  hemisphere. 
Thus  the  modern  megaphone  is  especially  useful  to 
aeronauts. 

Hereabouts  our  fun  began.  Many  countrymen 
thought  the  balloon  running  away  with  us  and  tried 
to  stop  and  save  us  —  always  by  grasping  the  drag 

[135] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

rope,  bracing  themselves,  and  trying  literally  to  hold 
us ;  when  the  slack  of  the  rope  straightened,  they  per- 
formed somersaults  such  as  our  pilot  vowed  no  acro- 
bat could  equal.  And  yet  the  balance  of  the  balloon 
iz  so  fine  that  even  a  child  of  ten  can  pull  one  down, 
if  only  it  has  strength  enough  to  withstand  occasional 
momentary  lifts  off  the  ground.  Occasionally  one 
more  clever  would  run  and  take  a  quick  turn  of  the 
rope  about  a  gate  or  fence  —  and  then  spend  the  rest 
of  the  evening  gathering  the  scattered  fragments  and 
repairing  the  damage. 

And  when  there  was  not  fun  enough  below,  Don- 
aldson himself  would  take  a  hand  and  put  his  steed 
through  some  of  her  fancy  paces  —  as  when,  ap- 
proaching a  large  lake,  he  told  us  to  hold  tightly  to 
the  stays,  let  out  gas  and  dropped  us,  bang!  upon 
the  lake.  Running  at  a  speed  of  twelve  or  fifteen 
miles  an  hour,  we  hit  the  water  with  a  tremendous 
shock,  bounded  thirty  or  forty  feet  into  the  air, 
descended  again  and  literally  skipped  in  great  leaps 
along  the  surface  of  the  water,  precisely  like  a  well- 
thrown  "  skipping  stone.  "  Then  out  went  ballast 
and  up  and  on  we  went,  no  worse  for  the  fun  beyond 
a  pretty  thorough  wetting! 

At  6:20  p.  m.  we  landed  on  the  farm  of  Garrett 
Harper  in  Bergen  County,  twenty-six  miles  from  New 
York.  After  drinking  our  fill  of  milk  at  the  farm- 
house, we  rose  again  and  drifted  north  over  Ram- 
[136] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

apo  until,  at  7:30,  a  dead  calm  came  upon  us 
and  we  made  another  descent.  We  then  found  that 
we  had  landed  near  Bladentown  on  the  farm  of  Miss 
Charlotte  Thompson,  a  charming  actress  of  the  day 
whose  "  Jane  Eyre  "  and  "Fanchon  "  are  still  pleas- 
ant memories  to  old  theatre-goers.  Loading  our 
balloon  with  stones  to  anchor  it,  our  party  paid  her 
a  visit  and  were  cordially  received.  An  invitation 
to  join  us  hazarded  by  Donaldson,  Miss  Thompson 
accepted  with  delight.  I  do  not  know  if  she  is  still 
living,  but  if  she  is,  she  cannot  have  forgotten  her 
half-hour's  cruise  in  the  good  airship  Barnum,  wafted 
silently  by  a  gentle  evening  breeze,  the  lovely  pan- 
orama beneath  her  half  hid,  half  seen  through  the 
purple  haze  of  twilight. 

After  landing  Miss  Thompson  at  8 :18  we  ascended 
for  the  night,  for  a  night's  bivouac  among  the  stars. 
The  moon  rose  early.  We  were  soon  sailing  over 
the  Highlands  of  the  Hudson.  Off  in  the  east  we 
could  see  the  river,  a  winding  ribbon  of  silver.  We 
were  running  low,  rarely  more  than  200  feet  high. 
Below  us  the  great  drag  rope  was  hissing  through 
meadows,  roaring  over  fences,  crashing  through  tree- 
tops.  And  all  night  long  we  were  continually  ascend- 
ing and  descending,  sinking  into  valleys  and  rising 
over  hills,  following  closely  the  contours  of  the  local 
topography. 

During  the  more  equable  temperature  of  night  the 
[137] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

balloon's  height  is  governed  by  the  drag  rope. 
Leaving  a  range  of  hills  and  floating  out  over  a  val- 
ley, the  weight  of  the  drag  rope  pulls  the  balloon 
down  until  the  same  length  of  rope  is  trailing  through 
the  valley  that  had  been  dragging  on  the  hill.  This 
habit  of  the  balloon  produces  startling  effects. 
Drifting  swiftly  toward  a  rocky,  precipitous  hillside 
against  which  it  seems  inevitable  you  must  dash  to 
your  death,  suddenly  the  trailing  drag  rope  reaches 
the  lower  slopes  and  you  soar  like  a  bird  over  the  hill, 
often  so  low  that  the  bottom  of  the  basket  swishes 
through  the  tree-tops. 

But,  while  useful  in  conserving  the  balloon's  en- 
ergy, the  drag  rope  is  a  source  of  constant  peril  to 
aeronauts,  of  terror  to  people  on  the  earth,  and  of 
damage  to  property.  It  has  a  nasty  clinging  habit, 
winding  round  trees  or  other  objects,  that  may  at 
any  moment  upset  basket  and  aeronauts.  On  this 
trip  our  drag  rope  tore  sections  out  of  scores  of 
fences,  upset  many  hay  stacks,  injured  horses  and 
cattle  that  tried  to  run  across  it,  whipped  oif  many 
a  chimney,  broke  telegraph  wires,  and  seemed  to  take 
malicious  delight  in  working  some  havoc  with  every- 
thing it  touched. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  sighted  Cozzen's  Hotel,  and 
shortly  drifted  across  the  parade  ground  of  West 
Point,  its  huge  battlemented  gray  walls  making  one 

[138] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

fancy  he  was  looking  down  into  the  inner  court  of 
some  great  mediaeval  castle.  Then  we  drifted  out 
over  the  Hudson  toward  Cold  Spring  until,  caught  by 
a  different  current,  we  were  swept  along  the  course 
of  the  river. 

As  we  sailed  over  mid-stream  and  two  hundred  feet 
above  it,  with  the  tall  cliffs  and  mysterious,  dark 
recesses  of  the  Highlands  on  either  hand,  the  waters 
turned  to  a  livid  gray  under  the  feeble  light  of  the 
waning  moon.  No  part  of  our  voyage  was  more  im- 
pressive, no  scene  more  awe-inspiring.  It  was  a  re- 
gion of  such  weird  lights  and  gruesome  shadows  as 
no  fancy  could  people  with  aught  but  gaunt  goblins 
and  dread  demons,  come  down  to  us  through  genera- 
tions untold,  an  unspent  legacy  of  terror,  from  half- 
savage,  superstitious  ancestors. 

Suddenly  Ford  spoke  in  a  low  voice:  "Boys,  I 
was  in  nine  or  ten  battles  of  the  Civil  War,  from 
Gaines's  Mill  to  Gettysburg,  but  in  none  of  them  was 
there  a  scene  which  impressed  me  as  so  terrible  as 
this,  no  situation  that  seemed  to  me  so  threatening 
of  irresistible  perils. " 

Nearing  Fishkill  at  eleven,  a  land  breeze  caught 
and  whisked  us  off  eastward.  At  midnight  we  struck 
the  town  of  Wappinger's  Falls  —  and  struck  it  hard. 
Our  visitation  is  doubtless  remembered  there  yet. 
The  town  was  in  darkness  and  asleep.  We  were 

[139] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

running  low  before  a  stiff  breeze,  half  our  drag  rope 
on  the  ground.  The  rope  began  to  roar  across  roofs 
and  upset  chimneys  with  shrieks  and  crashes  that 
set  the  folk  within  believing  the  end  of  the  world  had 
come.  Instantly  the  streets  were  filled  with  flying 
white  figures  and  the  air  with  men's  curses  and 
women's  screams.  Three  shots  were  fired  beneath  us. 
Two  of  our  fellows  said  they  heard  the  whistle  of  the 
balls,  so  Donaldson  thought  it  prudent  to  throw  out 
ballast  and  rise  out  of  range. 

Here  the  moon  left  us  and  we  sailed  on  throughout 
the  remainder  of  the  night  in  utter  darkness  and 
without  any  extraordinary  incident,  all  but  the  watch 
lying  idly  in  the  bottom  of  the  basket  viewing  the 
stars  and  wondering  what  new  mischief  the  drag  rope 
might  be  planning. 

The  only  duty  of  the  watch  was  to  lighten  ship 
upon  too  near  descent  to  the  earth,  and  for  this  pur- 
pose a  handful  of  Hippodrome  circulars  usually 
proved  sufficient.  Indeed,  only  eight  pounds  of  bal- 
last were  used  from  the  time  we  left  Miss  Thompson 
till  dawn,  barring  a  half-sack  spent  in  getting  out 
of  range  of  the  Wappinger's  Falls  sportsmen,  who 
seemed  to  want  to  bag  us. 

Ford  and  Austin  were  assigned  as  the  lookout  from 
12 :00  to  2 :00,  Lyons  and  myself  from  2 :00  to  3 :00, 
and  Donaldson  and  MacKeever  from  3:00  to  4:00. 

[140] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

From  midnight  till  3:00  a.  m.  Donaldson  slept  as 
peaceful  as  a  baby,  curled  up  in  the  basket  with  a 
sand-bag  for  a  pillow.  The  rest  of  us  slept  little 
through  the  night  and  talked  less,  each  absorbed  in 
the  reflections  and  speculations  inspired  by  our  novel 
experience. 

At  the  approach  of  dawn  we  had  the  most  unique 
and  extraordinary  experience  ever  given  to  man. 
The  balloon  was  sailing  low  in  a  deep  valley.  To 
the  east  of  us  the  Berkshires  rose  steeply  to  sum- 
mits probably  fifteen  hundred  feet  above  us.  Be- 
neath us  a  little  village  lay,  snuggled  cosily  between 
two  small  meeting  brooks,  all  dim  under  the  mists  of 
early  morning  and  the  shadows  of  the  hills.  No 
flush  of  dawn  yet  lit  the  sky.  Donaldson  had  been 
consulting  his  watch.  Suddenly  he  rose  and  called, 
pointing  eastward  across  the  range: 

« Watch,  boys!  Look  there!" 

He  then  quickly  dumped  overboard  half  the  con- 
tents of  a  ballast  bag.  Flying  upward  like  an  arrow, 
the  balloon  soon  shot  up  above  the  mountain-top, 
when,  lo!  a  miracle.  The  phenomenon  of  sunrise 
was  reversed!  We  our  very  selves  instead  had  risen 
on  the  sun !  There  he  stood,  full  and  round,  peeping 
at  us  through  the  trees  crowning  a  distant  Berkshire 
hill,  as  if  startled  by  our  temerity. 

Shortly  thereafter,  when  we  had  descended  to  our 

x 

[141] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

usual  level  and  were  running  swiftly  before  a  stiff 
breeze  over  a  rocky  hillside,  Donaldson  yelled: 

"Hang  on,  boys,  for  your  lives ! " 

The  end  of  the  drag  rope  had  gotten  a  hitch  about 
a  large  tree  limb.  Luckily  Donaldson  had  seen  it 
in  time  to  warn  us,  else  we  had  there  finished  our 
careers.  We  had  barely  time  to  seize  the  stays  when 
the  rope  tautened  with  a  shock  that  nearly  turned 
the  basket  upside  down,  spilled  out  our  water-bucket 
and  some  ballast,  left  MacKeever  and  myself  hang- 
ing in  space  by  our  hands,  and  the  other  four  on  the 
lower  side  of  the  basket,  scrambling  to  save  them- 
selves. Instantly,  of  course,  the  basket  righted  and 
dropped  back  beneath  us. 

And  then  began  a  terrible  struggle. 

The  pressure  of  the  wind  bore  us  down  within  a 
hundred  feet  of  the  ragged  rocks.  Groaning  under 
the  strain,  the  rope  seemed  ready  to  snap.  Like  a 
huge  leviathan  trapped  in  a  net,  the  gas-bag  writhed, 
twisted,  bulged,  shrank,  gathered  into  a  ball  and 
sprang  fiercely  out.  The  loose  folds  of  canvas 
sucked  up  until  Jialf  the  netting  stood  empty,  and 
then  fold  after  fold  darted  out  and  back  with  all  the 
angry  menace  of  a  serpent's  tongue  and  with  the 
ominous  crash  of  musketry. 

It  seemed  the  canvas  must  inevitably  burst  and 
we  be  dashed  to  death.  But  Donaldson  was  cool 

[142] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

and  smiling,  and,  taking  the  only  precaution  possi- 
ble, stood  with  a  sheath-knife  ready  to  cut  away  the 
drag  rope  and  relieve  us  of  its  weight  in  case  our 
canvas  burst. 

Happily  the  struggle  was  brief.  The  limb  that 
held  us  snapped,  and  the  balloon  sprang  forward  in 
mighty  bounds  that  threw  us  off  our  feet  and  tossed 
the  great  drag  rope  about  like  a  whip-lash.  But  we 
were  free,  safe,  and  our  stout  vessel  soon  settled  down 
to  the  velocity  of  the  wind. 

By  this  time  we  all  were  beginning  to  feel  hungry, 
for  we  had  supped  the  night  before  in  mid-air  from 
a  lunch  basket  that  held  more  delicacies  than  sub- 
stantials.  So  Donaldson  proposed  a  descent  and 
began  looking  for  a  likely  place.  At  last  he  chose 
a  little  village,  which  upon  near  approach  we  learned 
lay  in  Columbia  County  of  our  own  good  State. 

We  called  to  two  farmers  to  pull  us  down,  no  easy 
task  in  the  rather  high  wind  then  blowing.  They 
grasped  the  rope  and  braced  themselves  as  had  others 
the  night  before,  and  presently  were  flying  through 
the  air  in  prodigious  if  ungraceful  somersaults. 
Amazed  but  unhurt,  they  again  seized  the  rope  and 
got  a  turn  about  a  stout  board  fence,  only  to  see  a 
section  or  two  of  the  fence  fly  into  the  air  as  if  in 
pursuit  of  us. 

Presently  the  heat  of  the  rising  sun  expanded  our 

[143] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

gas  and  sent  us  up  again  2,000  feet,  making 
breakfast  farther  off  than  ever.  Thus,  it  being  clear 
that  we  must  sacrifice  either  our  stomachs  or  our  gas, 
Donaldson  held  open  the  safety  valve  until  we  were 
once  more  safely  landed  on  mother  earth,  but  not 
until  after  we  had  received  a  pretty  severe  pounding 
about,  for  such  a  high  wind  blew  that  the  anchor  was 
slow  in  holding. 

This  landing  was  made  at  5 :24  a.  m.  on  the  farm 
of  John  W.  Coons  near  the  village  of  Greenport,  four 
miles  from  Hudson  City,  and  about  one  hundred  and 
thirty  miles  from  New  York. 

Here  our  pilot  decided  our  vessel  must  be  lightened 
of  two  men,  and  thus  the  lot  drawn  the  night  before 
compelled  us  to  part,  regretfully,  with  MacKeever  of 
the  Herald,  and  Austin  of  the  World.  Ford,  how- 
ever, owing  allegiance  to  an  afternoon  paper,  the 
Graphic,  and  always  bursting  with  honest  journal- 
istic zeal  for  a  "beat,"  saw  an  opportunity  to  win 
satisfaction  greater  even  than  that  of  keeping  on  with 
us.  So  he,  too,  left  us  here,  with  the  result  that  the 
Graphic  published  a  full  story  of  the  voyage  up  to 
this  point,  Saturday  afternoon,  the  twenty-fifth, 
the  Herald  and  the  World  trailed  along  for  second 
place  in  their  Sunday  editions,  while  Sun  and  Tribune 
readers  had  to  wait  till  Monday  morning  for  such 
"  News  from  the  Clouds  "  as  Lyons  and  I  had  to  give 
them,  for  wires  were  not  used  as  freely  then  as  now. 
[144] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

Our  departing  mates  brought  us  a  rare  good  break- 
fast from  Mr.  Coons'  generous  kitchen  —  a  four- 
teen-quart  tin  pail  well-nigh  filled  with  good  things, 
among  them  two  currant  pies  on  yellow  earthen  plates, 
gigantic  in  size,  pale  of  crust,  though  anything  but 
anaemic  of  contents.  Lyons  finished  nearly  the  half 
of  one  before  our  reascent,  to  his  sorrow,  for  scarcely 
were  we  off  the  earth  before  he  developed  a  colic  that 
seemed  to  interest  him  more,  right  up  to  the  finish  of 
the  trip,  than  the  scenery. 

Bidding  our  mates  good-bye,  we  prepared  to  re- 
ascend.  Many  farmers  had  been  about  us  holding 
to  our  ropes  and  leaning  on  the  basket,  and  later  we 
realized  we  had  not  taken  in  sufficient  ballast  to  offset 
the  weight  of  the  three  men  who  had  left  us. 

Released,  the  balloon  sprang  upward  at  a  pace 
that  all  but  took  our  breath  away.  Instantly  the 
earth  disappeared  beneath  us.  We  saw  Donaldson 
pull  the  safety  valve  wide  open,  draw  his  sheath  knife 
ready  to  cut  the  drag  rope,  standing  rigid,  with  his 
eyes  riveted  upon  the  aneroid  barometer.  The  hand 
of  the  barometer  was  sweeping  across  the  dial  at  a 
terrific  rate.  I  glanced  at  Donaldson  and  saw  him 
smile.  Then  I  looked  back  at  the  barometer  and  saw 
the  hand  had  stopped  —  at  10,200  feet!  How  long 
we  were  ascending  we  did  not  know.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  impressions  described  were  all  there  was  time 
for,  and  that  when  Donaldson  turned  and  spoke  we 
[145] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

saw  his  lips  move  but  could  hear  no  sound.  Our  speed 
had  been  such  that  the  pressure  of  the  air  upon  the 
tympanum  of  the  ear  left  us  deaf  for  some  minutes. 
We  had  made  a  dash  of  two  miles  into  cloudland  and 
had  accomplished  it,  we  three  firmly  believed,  in  little 
more  than  a  minute. 

Presently  Donaldson  observed  the  anchor  and 
grapnel  had  come  up  badly  clogged  with  sod,  and  a 
good  heavy  tug  he  and  I  had  of  it  to  pull  them  in,  for 
Lyons  was  still  much  too  busy  with  his  currant  pie 
to  help  us.  Nor  indeed  were  the  currant  pies  yet 
done  with  us,  for  at  the  end  of  our  tug  at  the  anchor 
rope,  I  found  I  had  been  kneeling  very  precisely  in 
the  middle  of  pie  No.  2,  and  had  contrived  to  absorb 
most  of  it  into  the  knees  of  my  trousers.  Thus  at 
the  end  of  the  day,  come  to  Saratoga  after  all  shops 
were  closed,  I  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  porch  and 
office  crowd  of  visitors  at  the  United  States  Hotel 
in  a  condition  that  only  needed  moccasins  and  a  war 
bonnet  to  make  me  a  tolerable  imitation  of  an  Indian. 

We  remained  aloft  at  an  altitude  of  one  or  two 
and  one-half  miles  for  three  hours  and  a  half,  stayed 
there  until  the  silence  became  intolerable,  until  the 
buzz  of  a  fly  or  the  croak  of  a  frog  would  have  been 
music  to  our  ears.  Here  was  absolute  silence,  the 
silence  of  the  grave  and  death,  a  silence  never  to  be 
experienced  by  living  man  in  any  terrestrial  condition. 

Occasionally  the  misty  clouds  in  which  we  hung  en- 
[146] 


AN  AERIAL  BIVOUAC 

shrouded  parted  beneath  us  and  gave  us  glimpses  of 
the  distant  earth,  opened  and  disclosed  landscapes  of 
infinite  beauty  set  in  gray  nebulous  frames.  Once  we 
passed  above  a  thunderstorm,  saw  the  lightning  play 
beneath  us,  felt  our  whole  fabric  tremble  at  its  shock 
—  and  were  glad  enough  when  we  had  left  it  well 
behind.  Seen  from  a  great  height,  the  earth  looked 
to  be  a  vast  expanse  of  dark  green  velvet,  sometimes 
shaded  to  a  deeper  hue  by  cloudlets  floating  beneath 
the  sun,  splashed  here  with  the  silver  and  there  with 
the  gold  garniture  reflected  from  rippilng  waters. 

Toward  noon  we  descended  beneath  the  region  of 
clouds  into  the  realm  of  light  and  life,  and  found  our- 
selves hovering  above  the  Mountain  House  of  the 
Catskills.  And  thereabouts  we  drifted  in  cross-cur- 
rents until  nearly  4 :00  p.  m.,  when  a  heavy  southerly 
gale  struck  us  and  swept  us  rapidly  northward  past 
Albany  at  a  pace  faster  than  I  have  ever  travelled  on 
a  railway. 

We  still  had  ballast  enough  left  to  assure  ten  or 
twelve  hours  more  travel.  But  we  did  not  like  our 
course.  The  prospects  were  that  we  would  end  our 
voyage  in  the  wilderness  two  hundred  or  more  miles 
north  of  Ottawa.  So  we  rose  to  12,500  feet,  seeking 
an  easterly  or  westerly  current,  but  without  avail. 
We  could  not  escape  the  southerly  gale.  Prudence, 
therefore,  dictated  a  landing  before  nightfall.  Land- 
ing in  the  high  gale  was  both  difficult  and  dan- 
[147] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

gerous,  and  was  not  accomplished  until  we  were  all 
much  bruised  and  scratched  in  the  oak  thicket 
Donaldson  chose  for  our  descent. 

Thus  the  first  voyage  of  the  good  airship  Barnum 
ended  at  6 :07  p.  m.  on  the  farm  of  E.  R.  Young,  nine 
miles  north  of  Saratoga. 

A  year  later  the  Barnum  rose  for  the  last  time  — 
from  Chicago  —  and  to  this  day  the  fate  of  the  stanch 
craft  and  her  brave  captain  remains  an  unsolved 
mystery. 


[148] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

LIFE  was  never  dull  in  Grant  County,  New 
Mexico,   in  the   early  eighties.      There  was 
always  something  doing  —  usually  something 
the  average  law-abiding,  peace-loving  citizen  would 
have  been  glad  enough  to  dispense  with.     To  say 
that  life  then  and  there  was  insecure  is  to  describe 
altogether  too  feebly  a  state  of  society  and  an  en- 
vironment wherein  Death,  in  one  violent  form  or  an- 
other, was  ever  abroad,  seldom  long  idle,  always  alert 
for  victims. 

When  the  San  Carlos  Apaches,  under  Victoria,  Ju, 
or  Geronimo,  were  not  out  gunning  for  the  whites, 
the  whites  were  usually  out  gunning  for  one  another 
over  some  trivial  difference.  Everybody  carried  a 
gun  and  was  more  or  less  handy  with  it.  Indeed,  it 
was  a  downright  bad  plan  to  carry  one  unless  you 
were  handy.  For  with  gunning  —  the  game  most 
played,  if  not  precisely  the  most  popular  —  every  one 
was  supposed  to  be  familiar  with  the  rules  and  to 
know  how  to  play ;  and  in  a  game  where  every  hand 
is  sure  to  be  "  called, "  no  one  ever  suspected  another 
of  being  out  on  a  sheer  "  bluff. "  Thus  the  coroner 
[149] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

invariably  declared  it  a  case  of  suicide  where  one  man 
drew  a  gun  on  another  and  failed  to  use  it. 

This  highly  explosive  state  of  society  was  not  due 
to  the  fact  that  there  were  few  peaceable  men  in  the 
country,  for  there  were  many  of  them,  men  of  char- 
acter and  education,  honest,  and  as  law-abiding  as 
their  peculiar  environment  would  permit.  Moreover, 
the  percentage  of  professional  "  bad  men  " —  and  this 
was  a  profession  then  —  was  comparatively  small.  It 
was  due  rather  to  the  fact  that  every  one,  no  matter 
how  peaceable  his  inclinations,  was  compelled  to  carry 
arms  habitually  for  self-defence,  for  the  Apaches 
were  constantly  raiding  outside  the  towns,  and  white 
outlaws  inside.  And  with  any  class  of  men  who  con- 
stantly carry  arms,  it  always  falls  out  that  a  weapon 
is  the  arbiter  of  even  those  minor  personal  differences 
which  in  the  older  and  more  effete  civilization  of  the 
East  are  settled  with  fists  or  in  a  petty  court. 

The  prevailing  local  contempt  for  any  man  who 
was  too  timid  to  "put  up  a  gun  fight"  when  the 
etiquette  of  a  situation  demanded  it,  was  expressed 
locally  in  the  phrase  that  one  "  could  take  a  corncob 
and  a  lightning  bug  and  make  him  run  himself  to 
death  trying  to  get  away."  It  is  clearly  unnecessary 
to  explain  why  the  few  men  of  this  sort  in  the  com- 
munity did  not  occupy  positions  of  any  particular 
prominence.  Their  opinions  did  not  seem  to  carry 

[150] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

as  much  weight  as  those  of  other  gentlemen  who  were 
known  to  be  notably  quick  to  draw  and  shoot. 

I  even  recall  many  instances  where  the  pistol  en- 
tered into  the  pastimes  of  the  community.  One  in- 
stance will  stand  telling: 

A  game  of  poker  (rather  a  stiff  one)  had  been 
going  on  for  about  a  fortnight  in  the  Red  Light  Sa- 
loon. The  same  group  of  men,  five  or  six  old  friends, 
made  up  the  game  every  day.  All  had  varying  suc- 
cess but  one,  who  lost  every  day.  And,  come  to  think 
of  it,  his  luck  varied  too,  for  some  days  he  lost  more 
than  others.  While  he  did  not  say  much  about  his 
losings,  it  was  observed  that  his  temper  was  not 
improving. 

This  sort  of  thing  went  on  for  thirteen  days.  The 
thirteenth  day  the  loser  happened  to  come  in  a  little 
late,  after  the  game  was  started.  It  also  happened 
that  on  this  particular  day  one  of  the  players  had 
brought  in  a  friend,  a  stranger  in  the  town,  to  join 
the  game.  When  the  loser  came  in,  therefore,  he  was 
introduced  to  the  stranger  and  sat  down.  A  hand 
was  dealt  him.  He  started  to  play  it,  stopped,  rapped 
on  the  table  for  attention,  and  said: 

"  Boys,  I  want  to  make  a  personal  explanation  to 
this  yere  stranger.  Stranger,  this  yere  game  is  sure 
a  tight  wad  for  a  smoothbore.  I  'm  loser  in  it,  an'  a 
heavy  one,  for  exactly  thirteen  days,  and  these 

[151] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

boys  all  understand  that  the  first  son  of  a  gun  I  find 
I  can  beat,  I  'm  going  to  take  a  six-shooter  an'  make 
him  play  with  me  a  week.  Now,  if  you  has  no  ob- 
jections to  my  rules,  you  can  draw  cards. " 

Luckily  for  the  stranger,  perhaps,  the  thirteenth 
day  was  as  bad  for  the  loser  as  its  predecessors. 

Outside  the  towns  there  were  only  three  occupa- 
tions in  Grant  County  in  those  years,  cattle  ranch- 
ing, mining,  and  fighting  Apaches,  all  of  a  sort  to 
attract  and  hold  none  but  the  sturdiest  types  of  real 
manhood,  men  inured  to  danger  and  reckless  of  it. 
In  the  early  eighties  no  faint-heart  came  to  Grant 
County  unless  he  blundered  in  —  and  any  such  were 
soon  burning  the  shortest  trail  out.  These  men  were 
never  better  described  in  a  line  than  when,  years  ago, 
at  a  banquet  of  California  Forty-niners,  Joaquin 
Miller,  the  poet  of  the  Sierras,  speaking  of  the 
splendid  types  the  men  of  forty-nine  represented, 
said: 

"  The  cowards  never  started,  and  all  the  weak  died 
on  the  road!" 

Within  the  towns,  also,  there  were  only  three  oc- 
cupations: first,  supplying  the  cowmen  and  miners 
whatever  they  needed,  merchandise  wet  and  dry,  law 
mundane  and  spiritual,  for  although  neither  court 
nor  churches  were  working  overtime,  they  were  avail- 
able for  the  few  who  had  any  use  for  them;  second, 
gambling,  at  monte,  poker,  or  faro ;  and,  third,  figur- 
[  152  ] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

ing  how  to  slip  through  the  next  twenty-four  hours 
without  getting  a  heavier  load  of  lead  in  one's  system 
than  could  be  conveniently  carried,  or  how  to  stay 
happily  half  shot  and  yet  avoid  coming  home  on  a 
shutter,  unhappily  shot,  or,  having  an  active  enemy 
on  hand,  how  best  to  "get"  him. 

Thus,  while  plainly  the  occupations  of  Grant 
County  folk  were  somewhat  limited  in  variety,  in  the 
matter  of  interest  and  excitement  their  games  were 
wide  open  and  the  roof  off. 

Nor  did  all  the  perils  to  life  in  Grant  County  lurk 
within  the  burnished  grooves  of  a  gun  barrel,  accord- 
ing to  certain  local  points  of  view,  for  always  it  is  the 
most  unusual  that  most  alarms,  as  when  one  of  my 
cowboys  "  allowed  he'd  go  to  town  for  a  week, "  and 
was  back  on  the  ranch  the  evening  of  the  second  day. 
Asked  why  he  was  back  so  soon,  he  replied : 

"Well,  fellers,  one  o'  them  big  depot  water  tanks 
burnt  plumb  up  this  mawnin',  an'  reckonin'  whar 
that'd  happen  a  feller  might  ketch  fire  anywhere  in 
them  little  old  town  trails,  I  jes'  nachally  pulled  my 
freight  for  camp!" 

But  a  cowboy  is  the  subject  of  this  story  —  Kit 
Joy.  His  genus,  and  striking  types  of  the  genus,  have 
been  so  cleverly  described,  especially  by  Lewis  and  by 
Adams  (some  day  I  hope  to  meet  Andy)  that  I  need 
say  little  of  it  here.  Still,  one  of  the  cowboy's 
most  notable  and  most  admirable  traits  has  not 
[153] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

been  emphasized  so  much  as  it  deserves:  I  mean  his 
downright  reverence  and  respect  for  womanhood.  No 
real  cowboy  ever  wilfully  insulted  any  woman,  or  lost 
a  chance  to  resent  any  insult  offered  by  another. 
Indeed,  it  was  an  article  of  the  cowboy  creed  never 
broken,  and  all  well  knew  it.  So  it  happened  that 
when  one  day  a  cowboy,  in  a  crowded  car  of  a  train 
held  up  by  bandits,  was  appealed  to  by  an  Eastern 
lady  in  the  next  seat, — 

"  Heavens !  I  have  four  hundred  dollars  in  my 
purse  which  I  cannot  afford  to  lose;  please,  sir,  tell 
me  how  I  can  hide  it. " 

Instantly  came  the  answer: 

"  Shucks !  miss,  stick  it  in  yer  sock ;  them  fellers 
has  nerve  enough  to  hold  up  a  train  an'  kill  any  feller 
that  puts  up  a  fight,  but  nary  one  o'  them  has  nerve 
enough  to  go  into  a  woman's  sock  after  her  bank 
roll!" 

Kit  Joy  was  a  cowboy  working  on  the  X  ranch  on 
the  Gila.  He  was  a  youngster  little  over  twenty.  It 
was  said  of  him  that  he  had  left  behind  him  in  Texas 
more  or  less  history  not  best  written  in  black  ink,  but 
whether  this  was  true  or  not  I  do  not  know.  Certain  it 
is  that  he  was  a  reckless  dare-devil,  always  foremost 
in  the  little  amenities  cowboys  loved  to  indulge  in 
when  they  came  to  town,  such  as  shooting  out  the 
lights  in  saloons  and  generally  "  shelling  up  the  settle- 
ment, "—  which  meant  taking  a  friendly  shot  at  about 
[154] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

everything  that  showed  up  on  the  streets.  Neverthe- 
less, Kit  in  the  main  was  thoroughly  good-natured 
and  amiable. 

Early  in  his  career  in  Silver  City  it  was  observed 
that  perhaps  his  most  distinguishing  trait  was  cu- 
riosity. Ultimately  his  curiosity  got  him  into  trouble, 
as  it  does  most  people  who  indulge  it.  His  first  dis- 
play of  curiosity  in  Silver  was  a  very  great  surprise, 
even  to  those  who  knew  him  best.  It  was  also  a  dis- 
appointment. 

A  tenderfoot,  newly  arrived,  appeared  on  the 
streets  one  day  in  knickerbockers  and  stockings.  Kit 
was  in  town  and  was  observed  watching  the  tender- 
foot. To  the  average  cowboy  a  silk  top  hat  was  like 
a  red  flag  to  a  bull,  so  much  like  it  in  fact  that  the 
ihat  was  usually  lucky  to  escape  with  less  than  half 
a  dozen  holes  through  it.  But  here  in  these  knee- 
breeches  and  stockings  was  something  much  more 
bizarre  and  exasperating  than  a  top  hat,  from  a  cow- 
boy's point  of  view.  The  effect  on  Kit  was  therefore 
closely  watched  by  the  bystanders. 

No  one  fancied  for  a  moment  that  Kit  would  do  less 
than  undertake  to  teach  the  tenderfoot  "  the  cowboy's 
hornpipe,"  not  a  particularly  graceful  but  a  very 
quick  step,  which  is  danced  most  artistically  when  a 
bystander  is  shooting  at  the  dancer's  toes.  Indeed, 
the  ball  was  expected  to  open  early.  To  every  one's 
surprise  and  disappointment,  it  did  not.  Instead,  Kit 
[155] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

dropped  in  behind  the  tenderfoot  and  began  to  follow 
him  about  town  —  followed  him  for  at  least  an  hour. 
Every  one  thought  he  was  studying  up  some  more 
unique  penalty  for  the  tenderfoot.  But  they  were 
wrong,  all  wrong. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Kit  was  so  far  consumed  with 
curiosity  that  he  forgot  everything  else,  forgot  even 
to  be  angry.  At  last,  when  he  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  he  walked  up  to  the  tenderfoot,  detained  him 
gently  by  the  sleeve,  and  asked  in  a  tone  of  real  sym- 
pathy and  concern:  "Say,  mistah!  'Fo'  God, 
won't  yo'  mah  let  yo'  wear  long  pants  ?  " 

Naturally  the  tenderfoot's  indignation  was  aroused 
and  expressed,  but  Kit's  sympathies  for  a  man  con- 
demned to  such  a  juvenile  costume  were  so  far  stirred 
that  he  took  no  notice  of  it. 

Kit  was  a  typical  cowboy,  industrious,  faithful,  un- 
complaining, of  the  good  old  Southern  Texas  breed. 
In  the  saddle  from  daylight  till  dark,  riding  com- 
pletely down  to  the  last  jump  in  them  two  or  three 
horses  a  day,  it  never  occurred  to  him  even  to  growl 
when  a  stormy  night,  with  thunder  and  lightning,  pro- 
longed his  customary  three-hours'  turn  at  night  guard 
round  the  herd  to  an  all-night's  vigil.  He  took  it  as 
a  matter  of  course.  And  his  rope  and  running  iron 
were  ever  ready,  and  his  weather  eye  alert  for  a 
chance  to  catch  and  decorate  with  the  X  brand  any 
Btray  cattle  that  ventured  within  his  range.  This 
[156] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

was  a  peculiar  phase  of  cowboy  character.  While 
not  himself  profiting  a  penny  by  these  inroads  on 
neighboring  herds,  he  was  never  quite  so  happy  as 
when  he  had  added  another  maverick  to  the  herd 
bearing  his  employer's  brand,  an  increase  always 
obtained  at  the  expense  of  some  of  the  neighbors. 

One  night  on  the  Spring  round-up,  the  day's  work 
finished,  supper  eaten,  the  night  horses  caught  and 
saddled,  the  herd  in  hand  driven  into  a  close  circle 
and  bedded  down  for  the  night  in  a  little  glade  in  the 
hills,  Kit  was  standing  first  relief.  The  day's  drive 
had  been  a  heavy  one,  the  herd  was  well  grazed  and 
watered  in  the  late  afternoon,  the  night  was  fine ;  and 
so  the  twelve  hundred  or  fifteen  hundred  cattle  in  the 
herd  were  lying  down  quietly,  giving  no  trouble  to  the 
night  herders.  Kit,  therefore,  was  jogging  slowly 
round  the  herd,  softly  jingling  his  spurs  and  humming 
some  rude  love  song  of  the  sultry  sort  cowboys  never 
tire  of  repeating.  The  stillness  of  the  night  super- 
induced reflection.  With  naught  to  interrupt  it,  Kit's 
curiosity  ran  farther  afield  than  usual. 

Recently  down  at  Lordsburg,  with  the  outfit  ship- 
ping a  train-load  of  beeves,  he  had  seen  the  Overland 
Express  empty  its  load  of  passengers  for  supper,  a 
crowd  of  well-dressed  men  and  women,  the  latter  bril- 
liant with  the  bright  colors  cowboys  love  and  with 
glittering  gems.  To-night  he  got  to  thinking  about 
them. 

[157] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Wherever  did  they  all  come  from?  How  ever  did 
they  get  so  much  money?  Surely  they  must  come 
from  'Frisco.  No  lesser  place  could  possibly  turn 
out  such  magnificence.  Then  Kit  let  his  fancy  wan- 
der off  into  crude  cowboy  visions  of  what  'Frisco 
might  be  like,  for  he  had  never  seen  a  city. 

"  What  a  buster  of  a  town  'Frisco  must  be ! "  Kit 
soliloquized.  "  Must  have  more'n  a  hundred  saloons 
an'  more  slick  gals  than  the  X  brand  has  heifers. 
What  a  lot  o'  fun  a  feller  could  have  out  thar! 
Only  I  reckon  them  gals  wouldn't  look  at  him 
more'n  about  onct  unless  he  was  well  fixed  for  dough. 
Reckon  they  don't  drink  nothin'  but  wine  out  thar, 
nor  eat  nothin'  but  oysters.  An'  wine  an'  oysters 
costs  money,  oodles  o'  money !  That 's  the  worst  of  it ! 
S'pose  it'd  take  more'n  a  month's  pay  to  git  a  feller 
out  thar  on  the  kiars,  an'  then  about  three  months' 
pay  to  git  to  stay  a  week.  Reckon  that's  jes'  a  little 
too  rich  for  Kit's  blood.  But,  jiminy!  Wouldn't 
I  like  to  have  a  good,  big,  fat  bank  roll  an'  go  thar ! " 

Here  was  a  crisis  suddenly  come  in  Kit's  life, 
although  he  did  not  then  realize  it.  It  is  entirely  im- 
probable he  had  ever  before  felt  the  want  of  money. 
His  monthly  pay  of  thirty-five  dollars  enabled  him  to 
sport  a  pearl-handled  six-shooter  and  silver-mounted 
bridle  bit  and  spurs,  kept  him  well  clothed,  and 
gave  him  an  occasional  spree  in  town.  What  more 
could  any  reasonable  cowboy  ask? 
[158] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

But  to-night  the  very  elements  and  all  nature  were 
against  him.  Even  a  light  dash  of  rain  to  rouse  the 
sleeping  herd,  or  a  hungry  cow  straying  out  into  the 
darkness,  would  have  been  sufficient  to  divert  and 
probably  save  him;  but  nothing  happened.  The 
night  continued  fine.  The  herd  slept  on.  And  Kit 
was  thus  left  an  easy  prey,  since  covetousness  had 
come  to  aid  curiosity  in  compassing  his  ruin. 

"A  bank  roll!  A  big,  fat,  full-grown,  long- 
horned,  four-year-old  roll!  That's  what  a  feller 
wants  to  do  'Frisco  right.  Nothin'  less.  But  whar  's 
it  comin'  from,  an'  when?  S'pose  I  brands  a  few 
mavericks  an'  gits  a  start  on  my  own?  No  use,  Kit; 
that 's  too  slow !  Time  you  got  a  proper  roll  you'd  be 
so  old  the  skeeters  wouldn't  even  bite  you,  to  say 
nothin'  of  a  gal  a-kissin'  of  you.  'Pears  like  you  ain't 
liable  to  git  thar  very  quick,  Kit,  'less  you  rustles 
mighty  peart  somewhar.  Talkin'  of  rustlin',  what's 
the  matter  with  that  anyway?" 

A  cold  glitter  came  in  Kit's  light  blue  eyes.  The 
muscles  of  his  lean,  square  jaws  worked  nervously. 
His  right  hand  dropped  caressingly  on  the  handle  of 
his  pistol. 

"That's  the  proper  caper,  Kit.  Why  didn't  you 
think  of  it  before?  Rustle,  damn  you,  an',  ef  you're 
any  good,  mebbe  so  you  can  git  to  'Frisco  afore  frost 
comes,  or  anywhere  else  you  likes.  Rustle !  By  jiminy, 
I  've  got  it ;  I  '11  jes'  stand  up  that  thar  Overland  Ex- 
[159] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

press.  Them  fellers  what  rides  on  it's  got  more'n 
they've  got  any  sort  o'  use  for.  What's  the  matter 
with  makin'  'em  whack  up  with  a  feller?  'Course 
they  '11  kick,  an'  thar  '11  be  a  whole  passle  o'  marshals 
an'  sheriffs  out  after  you,  but  what  o'  that  ?  Reckon 
Old  Blue  '11  carry  you  out  o'  range.  He 's  the  longest- 
winded  chunk  o'  horse  meat  in  these  parts.  Then 
you  '11  have  to  stay  out  strictly  on  the  scout  f er  a  few 
weeks,  till  they  gits  tired  o'  huntin'  of  you,  so  you 
can  slip  out  o'  this  yere  neck  o'  woods  'thout  leavin'  a 
trail. 

"An'  Lord!  but  won't  it  be  fun!  'Bout  as  much 
fun,  I  reckon,  as  doin'  'Frisco.  Won't  them  ten- 
derfeet  beller  when  they  hears  the  guns  a-crackin'  an' 
the  boys  a-yellin'!  Le'  see;  wonder  who  I'd  better 
take  along?" 

Scruples?  Kit  had  none.  Bred  and  raised  a 
merry  freebooter  on  the  unbranded  spoils  of  the  cat- 
tle range,  it  was  no  long  step  from  stealing  a  mav- 
erick to  holding  up  a  train. 

With  a  man  of  perhaps  any  other  class,  a  plan  to 
engage  in  a  new  business  enterprise  of  so  much 
greater  magnitude  than  any  of  those  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  would  have  been  made  the  subject  of 
long  consideration.  Not  so  with  Kit.  Cowboy  life 
compels  a  man  to  think  quickly,  and  often  to  act 
quicker  than  he  finds  it  convenient  to  think.  The 
hand  skilled  to  catch  the  one  possible  instant  when  the 
[160] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

wide,  circling  loop  of  the  lariat  may  be  successfully 
thrown,  and  the  eye  and  finger  trained  to  accurate 
snap-shooting,  do  not  well  go  with  a  mind  likely  to  be 
long  in  reaching  a  resolution  or  slow  to  execute  one. 

So  Kit  at  once  began  to  cast  about  for  two  or  three 
of  the  right  sort  of  boys  to  join  him.  Three  were 
quickly  chosen  out  of  his  own  and  a  neighboring  outfit. 
They  were  Mitch  Lee  and  Taggart,  two  white  cow- 
boys of  his  own  type  and  temper,  and  George  Cleve- 
land, a  negro,  known  as  a  desperate  fellow,  game  for 
anything.  It  needed  no  great  argument  to  secure 
the  co-operation  of  these  men.  A  mere  tip  of  the  lark 
and  the  loot  to  be  had  was  enough.  The  boys  saw 
their  respective  bosses.  They  "allowed  they'd  lay 
off  for  a  few  days  and  go  to  town."  So  they  were 
paid  off,  slung  their  Winchesters  on  their  saddles, 
mounted  their  favorite  horses,  and  rode  away.  They 
met  in  Silver  City,  coming  in  singly.  There  they 
purchased  a  few  provisions.  Then  they  separated 
and  rode  singly  out  of  town,  to  rendezvous  at  a  cer- 
tain point  on  the  Miembres  River. 

The  point  of  attack  chosen  was  the  little  station  of 
Gage  (tended  by  a  lone  operator),  on  the  Southern 
Pacific  Railway  west  of  Deming,  a  point  then  reached 
by  the  west-bound  express  at  twilight.  The  evening 
of  the  second  day  after  leaving  the  Gila,  Kit  and  his 
three  compadres  rode  into  Gage.  One  or  two  signifi- 
cant passes  with  a  six-shooter  hypnotized  the  station 
[161] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

agent  into  a  docile  tool.  A  dim  red  light  glimmered 
away  off  in  the  east.  As  the  minutes  passed,  it  grew 
and  brightened  fast.  Then  a  faint,  confused  murmur 
came  singing  over  the  rails  to  the  ears  of  the  waiting 
bandits.  The  light  brightened  and  grew  until  it 
looked  like  a  great  dull  red  sun,  and  then  the  thunder 
of  the  train  was  heard. 

Time  for  action  had  come! 

The  agent  was  made  to  signal  the  engineer  to  stop. 
With  lever  reversed  and  air  brakes  on,  the  train  was 
nearly  stopped  when  the  engine  reached  the  station. 
But  seeing  the  agent  surrounded  by  a  group  of  armed 
men,  the  engineer  shut  off  the  air  and  sought  to  throw 
his  throttle  open.  His  purpose  discovered,  a  quick 
snapshot  from  Mitch  Lee  laid  him  dead,  and,  spring- 
ing into  the  cab,  Mitch  soon  persuaded  the  fireman 
to  stop  the  train. 

Instantly  a  fusillade  of  pistol  shots  and  a  mad 
chorus  of  shrill  cowboy  yells  broke  out,  that  ter- 
rorized train  crew  and  passengers  into  docility. 

Within  fifteen  minutes  the  express  car  was  sacked, 
the  postal  car  gutted,  the  passengers  were  laid  under 
unwilling  contribution,  and  Kit  and  his  pals  were  rid- 
ing northward  into  the  night,  heavily  loaded  with  loot. 
Riding  at  great  speed  due  north,  the  party  soon 
reached  the  main  travelled  road  up  the  Miembres,  in 
whose  loose  shifting  sands  they  knew  their  trail  could 
mot  be  picked  up.  Still  forcing  the  pace,  they  reached 
[162] 


Whitehill  found  a  fragment  of  a  Kansas  newspaper ' ' 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

the  rough  hill-country  east  of  Silver  early  in  the  night, 
cached  their  plunder  safely,  and  a  little  after  midnight 
were  carelessly  bucking  a  monte  game  in  a  Silver 
City  saloon.  The  next  afternoon  they  quietly  rode 
out  of  town  and  joined  their  respective  outfits,  to  wait 
until  the  excitement  should  blow  over. 

Of  course  the  telegraph  soon  started  the  hue  and 
cry.  Officers  from  Silver,  Deming,  and  Lordsburg 
were  soon  on  the  ground,  led  by  Harvey  Whitehill, 
the  famous  old  sheriff  of  Grant  County.  But  of  clue 
there  was  none.  Naturally  the  station  agent  had 
come  safely  out  of  his  trance,  but  with  that  absence  of 
memory  of  what  had  happened  characteristic  of  the 
hypnotized.  The  trail  disappeared  in  the  sands  of 
the  Miembres  road.  Shrewd  old  Harvey  Whitehill 
was  at  his  wit's  end. 

Many  days  passed  in  fruitless  search.  At  last, 
riding  one  day  across  the  plain  at  some  distance  from 
the  line  of  flight  north  from  Gage,  Whitehill  found  a 
fragment  of  a  Kansas  newspaper.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  it  he  remembered  that  a  certain  merchant  of  Silver 
came  from  the  Kansas  town  where  this  paper  was 
published.  Hurrying  back  to  Silver,  Whitehill  saw 
the  merchant,  who  identified  the  paper  and  said  that 
he  undoubtedly  was  its  only  subscriber  in  Silver. 
Asked  if  he  had  given  a  copy  to  any  one,  he  finally 
recalled  that  some  time  before,  about  the  period  of  the 
robbery,  he  had  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  this  news- 
[163] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

paper  some  provisions  he  had  sold  to  a  negro  named 
Cleveland  and  a  white  man  he  did  not  know. 

Here  was  the  clue,  and  Whitehill  was  quick  to  fol- 
low it.  Meeting  a  negro  on  the  street,  he  pretended  to 
want  to  hire  a  cook.  The  negro  had  a  job.  Well, 
did  he  not  know  some  one  else?  By  the  way,  where 
was  George  Cleveland? 

"Oh,  boss,  he  done  left  de  Gila  dis  week  an'  gone 
ober  to  Socorro, "  was  the  answer. 

Two  days  later  Whitehill  found  Cleveland  in  a  So- 
corro restaurant,  got  the  "drop"  on  him,  told  him 
his  pals  were  arrested  and  had  confessed  that  they 
were  in  the  robbery,  but  that  he,  Cleveland,  had  killed 
Engineer  Webster.  This  brought  the  whole  story. 

"'Foh  God,  boss,  I  nebber  killed  dat  engineer. 
Mitch  Lee  done  it,  an'  him  an'  Taggart  an'  Kit  Joy, 
dey  done  lied  to  you  outrageous. " 

Within  a  few  days,  caught  singly,  in  ignorance  of 
Cleveland's  arrest,  and  taken  completely  by  surprise, 
Joy,  Taggart,  and  Lee  were  captured  on  the  Gila  and 
jailed,  along  with  Cleveland,  at  Silver  City,  held  to 
await  the  action  of  the  next  grand  jury. 

But  strong  walls  did  not  a  prison  make  adequate 
to  hold  these  men.  Before  many  weeks  passed,  an 
escape  was  planned  and  executed.  Two  other  prison- 
ers, one  a  man  wanted  in  Arizona,  and  the  other  a 
Mexican  horse-thief,  were  allowed  to  participate  in 
the  outbreak. 

[164] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

Taken  unawares,  their  guard  was  seized  and  bound 
with  little  difficulty.  Quickly  arming  themselves 
in  the  jail  office,  these  six  desperate  men  dashed  out 
of  the  jail  and  into  a  neighboring  livery  stable,  seized 
horses,  mounted,  and  rode  madly  out  of  town,  firing 
at  every  one  in  sight.  In  Silver  in  those  days  no  gen- 
tleman's trousers  fitted  comfortably  without  a  pistol 
stuck  in  the  waistband.  Therefore,  the  flying  des- 
peradoes received  as  hot  a  fire  as  they  sent.  By  this 
fire  Cleveland's  horse  was  killed  before  they  got  out  of 
town,  but  one  of  his  pals  stopped  and  picked  him  up. 

Instantly  the  town  was  in  an  uproar  of  excitement. 
Every  one  knew  that  the  capture  of  these  men  meant 
a  fight  to  the  death.  As  usual  in  such  emergencies, 
there  were  more  talkers  than  fighters.  Nevertheless, 
six  men  were  in  pursuit  as  soon  as  they  could  saddle 
and  mount.  The  first  to  start  was  the  driver  of  an 
express  wagon,  a  man  named  Jackson,  who  cut  his 
horse  loose  from  the  traces,  mounted  bareback,  and 
flew  out  of  town  only  a  few  hundred  yards  behind  the 
prisoners.  Six  others,  led  by  Charlie  Shannon  and 
La  Fer,  were  not  far  behind  Jackson.  The  men  of 
this  party  were  greatly  surprised  to  find  that  a  Boston 
boy  of  twenty,  a  tenderfoot  lately  come  to  town,  who 
had  scarcely  ever  ridden  a  horse  or  fired  a  rifle,  was 
among  their  number,  well  mounted  and  armed  —  a 
man  with  a  line  of  ancestry  worth  while,  and  himself 
a  worthy  survival  of  the  best  of  it. 
[165] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

The  chase  was  hot.  Jackson  was  well  in  advance, 
engaging  the  fugitives  with  his  pistol,  while  the  fugi- 
tives were  returning  the  fire  and  throwing  up  puffs  of 
dust  all  about  Jackson.  Behind  spurred  Shannon 
and  his  party. 

At  length  the  pursuit  gained.  Five  miles  out  of 
Silver,  in  the  Piiion  Hills  to  the  northwest,  too  close 
pressed  to  run  farther,  the  fugitives  sprang  from  their 
horses  and  ran  into  a  low  post  oak  thicket  covering 
about  two  acres,  where,  crouching,  they  could  not 
be  seen.  The  six  pursuers  sent  back  a  man  to  guide 
the  sheriff's  party  and  hasten  reinforcements,  and 
began  shelling  the  thicket  and  surrounding  it.  A  few 
minutes  later  Whitehall  rode  up  with  seven  more  men, 
and  the  thicket  was  effectually  surrounded.  To  the 
surprise  of  every  one,  a  hot  fire  poured  into  the 
thicket  failed  to  bring  a  single  answering  shot. 
Whitehill  was  no  man  to  waste  ammunition  on  such 
chance  firing,  so  he  ordered  a  charge.  His  little  com- 
mand rode  into  and  through  the  thicket  at  full  speed, 
only  to  find  their  quarry  gone,  gone  all  save  one. 
The  Mexican  lay  dead,  shot  through  the  head !  Kit's 
party  had  dashed  through  the  thicket  without  stop- 
ping, on  to  another,  and  their  trail  was  shortly  found 
leading  up  a  rugged  canon  of  the  Pinos  Altos  Range. 

Whitehill  divided  his  party.  Three  men  followed 
up  the  bottom  of  the  canon  on  foot,  five  mounted 
flankers  were  thrown  out  on  either  side.  At  last,  high 
[166] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

up  the  canon,  Kit's  party  was  found  at  bay,  lying  in 
some  thick  underbrush.  It  was  a  desperate  position 
to  attack,  but  the  pursuers  did  not  hesitate.  Dis- 
mounting, they  advanced  on  foot  with  rifles  cocked, 
but  with  all  the  caution  of  a  hunter  trailing  a  wounded 
grizzly.  The  negro  opened  the  ball  at  barely  twenty 
yards'  range  with  a  shot  that  drove  a  hole  through  the 
Boston  boy's  hat.  Dropping  at  first  with  surprise, 
for  he  had  not  seen  the  negro  till  the  instant  he  rose 
to  fire,  the  Boston  boy  returned  a  quick  shot  that  hap- 
pened to  hit  the  negro  just  above  the  centre  of  the 
forehead  and  rolled  him  over  dead. 

Approaching  from  another  direction,  Shannon  was 
first  to  draw  Taggart's  fire.  Taggart  was  lying 
hidden  in  the  brush;  Shannon  standing  out  in  the 
open.  Shot  after  shot  they  exchanged,  until  pres- 
ently a  ball  struck  the  earth  in  front  of  Taggart's 
face  and  filled  his  eyes  full  of  gravel  and  sand. 
Blinded  for  the  time,  he  called  for  quarter,  and  came 
out  of  the  brush  with  his  hands  up  and  another  man 
with  him.  Asked  for  his  pistol,  Taggart  replied: 

"  Damn  you,  that 's  empty,  or  I'd  be  shooting  yet." 

Meantime,  Whitehill  was  engaging  Mitch  Lee.  In 
a  few  minutes,  shot  through  and  helpless,  Lee  sur- 
rendered. It  was  quick,  hot  work ! 

All  but  Kit  were  now  killed  or  captured.     He  had 
been  separated  from  his  party,  and  La  Fer  was  seen 
trailing  him  on  a  neighboring  hillside. 
[167] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

At  this  juncture  the  sheriff  detailed  Shannon  to 
return  to  town  and  get  a  wagon  to  bring  in  the  dead 
and  wounded,  while  he  started  to  join  La  Fer  in  pur- 
suit of  Kit. 

An  hour  later,  as  Shannon  was  leaving  town  with  a 
wagon  to  return  to  the  scene  of  the  fight,  a  mob  of 
men,  led  by  a  shyster  lawyer,  joined  him  and  swore 
they  proposed  to  lynch  the  prisoners.  This  was  too 
much  for  Shannon's  sense  of  frontier  proprieties. 
So,  rising  in  his  wagon,  he  made  a  brief  but  effective 
speech. 

"Boys,  none  of  our  men  are  hurt,  although  it  is 
no  fault  of  our  prisoners.  A  dozen  of  us  have  gone 
out  and  risked  our  lives  to  capture  these  men.  You 
men  have  not  seen  fit,  for  what  motives  we  will  not 
discuss,  to  help  us.  Now,  I  tell  you  right  here  that 
any  who  want  can  come,  but  the  first  man  to  raise  a 
hand  against  a  prisoner  I  '11  kill." 

Shannon's  return  escort  was  small. 

But  once  more  back  in  the  hills  of  the  Finos  Altos, 
Shannon  found  a  storm  raised  he  could  not  quell, 
even  if  his  own  sympathies  had  not  drifted  with  it 
when  he  learned  its  cause.  His  friend  La  Fer  lay 
dead,  filled  full  of  buckshot  by  Kit  before  Whitehill's 
reinforcements  had  reached  him,  while  Kit  had  slipped 
away  through  the  underbrush,  over  rocks  that  left  no 
trail. 

La  Fer's  death  maddened  his  friends.  There 
[168] 


THE  EVOLUTION  OF  A  TRAIN  ROBBER 

was  little  discussion.  Only  one  opinion  prevailed. 
Taggart  and  Lee  must  die. 

Nothing  was  known  of  the  prisoner  wanted  in 
Arizona,  so  he  was  spared. 

Taggart  and  Lee  were  put  in  the  wagon,  the  for- 
mer tightly  bound,  the  latter  helpless  from  his  wound. 
Short  rope  halters  barely  five  feet  long  were  stripped 
from  the  horses,  knotted  round  the  prisoners'  necks, 
and  fastened  to  the  limb  of  a  juniper  tree.  Taggart 
climbed  to  the  high  wagon  seat,  took  a  header  and 
broke  his  neck.  The  wagon  was  then  pulled  away 
and  Lee  strangled. 

With  Cleveland,  Lee,  and  Taggart  dead,  Engineer 
Webster  and  La  Fer  were  fairly  well  avenged.  But 
Kit  was  still  out,  known  as  the  leader  and  the  man 
who  shot  La  Fer,  and  for  days  the  hills  were  full  of 
men  hunting  him.  Hiding  in  the  rugged,  thickly  tim- 
bered hills  of  the  Gila,  taking  needed  food  at  night, 
at  the  muzzle  of  his  gun,  from  some  isolated  ranch,  he 
was  hard  to  capture. 

Had  Kit  chosen  to  mount  himself  and  ride  out  of 
the  country,  he  might  have  escaped  for  good.  But 
this  he  would  not  do.  Dominated  still  by  the  fatal 
curiosity  and  covetousness  that  first  possessed  him, 
later  mastered  him,  and  then  drove  him  into  crime, 
bound  to  repossess  himself  of  his  hidden  treasure  and 
go  out  to  see  the  world,  Kit  would  not  leave  the  Gila. 
He  was  alone,  unaided,  with  no  man  left  his  friend, 
[169] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

with  all  men  on  the  alert  to  capture  or  to  kill  him, 
the  unequal  contest  nevertheless  lasted  for  many 
weeks. 

There  was  only  one  man  Kit  at  all  trusted,  a 
"nester"  (small  ranchman)  named  Racketty  Smith. 
One  day,  looking  out  from  a  leafy  thicket  in  which  he 
lay  hid,  Kit  saw  Racketty  going  along  the  road.  A 
lonely  outcast,  craving  the  sound  of  a  human  voice, 
believing  Racketty  at  least  neutral,  Kit  hailed  him 
and  approached.  As  he  drew  near,  Racketty  covered 
him  with  his  rifle  and  ordered  him  to  surrender.  Sur- 
prised, taken  entirely  unawares,  Kit  started  to  jump 
for  cover,  when  Racketty  fired,  shattered  his  right  leg 
and  brought  him  to  earth.  To  spring  upon  and  dis- 
arm Kit  was  the  work  of  an  instant. 

Kit  was  sentenced  to  imprisonment  at  Santa  Fe.  A 
few  years  ago,  having  gained  three  years  by  good 
behavior,  Kit  was  released,  after  having  served  four- 
teen years. 

However  Kit  may  still  hanker  for  "  a  big,  fat,  four- 
year-old,  long-homed  bank  roll,"  and  whatever  may 
be  his  curiosity  to  "do  'Frisco  proper,"  it  is  not 
likely  he  will  make  any  more  history  as  a  train  robber, 
for  at  heart  Kit  was  always  a  better  "good  man" 
than  "  bad  man." 


[no] 


CHAPTER  VDI 

CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

COWBOYS  were  seldom  respecters  of  the  feel- 
ings of  their  fellows.  Few  topics  were  so 
sacred  or  incidents  so  grave  they  were  not 
made  the  subject  of  the  rawest  jests.  Leading  a  life 
of  such  stirring  adventure  that  few  days  passed  with- 
out some  more  or  less  serious  mishap,  reckless  of  life, 
unheedful  alike  of  time  and  eternity,  they  made  the 
smallest  trifles  and  the  biggest  tragedies  the  subjects 
of  chaff  and  badinage  till  the  next  diverting  occur- 
rence. But  to  the  Cross  Canon  outfit  Mat  Barlow's 
love  for  Netty  Nevins  was  so  obviously  a  downright 
worship,  an  all-absorbing,  dominating  cult,  that,  in  a 
way,  and  all  unknown  to  her,  she  became  the  nearest 
thing  to  a  religion  the  Cross  Canonites  ever  had. 

Eight  years  before  Mat  had  come  among  them  a 
green  tenderfoot  from  a  South  Missouri  village, 
picked  up  in  Durango  by  Tom  McTigh,  the  foreman, 
on  a  glint  of  the  eye  and  set  of  the  jaw  that  suggested 
Workable  material.  Nor  was  McTigh  mistaken. 
Mat  took  to  range  work  like  a  duck  to  water.  Within 
a  year  he  could  rope  and  tie  a  mossback  with  the  best, 
and  in  scraps  with  Mancos  Jim's  Pah-Ute  horse  raid- 
[171] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ers  had  proved  himself  as  careless  a  dare-devil  as  the 
oldest  and  toughest  trigger-twitcher  of  the  lot. 

But  persuade  and  cajole  as  much  as  they  liked, 
none  of  the  outfit  were  ever  able  to  induce  Mat  to 
pursue  his  education  as  a  cowboy  beyond  the  details 
incident  to  work  and  frolic  on  the  open  range.  Old 
past-masters  in  the  classics  of  cowboy  town  deport- 
ment, expert  light  shooters,  monte  players,  dance-hall 
beaux,  elbow-crookers,  and  red-eye  riot-starters  la- 
bored faithfully  with  Mat,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  To 
town  with  them  he  went,  but  with  them  in  their  de- 
bauches he  never  joined;  indeed  as  a  rule  he  even  re- 
fused to  discuss  such  incidents  with  them  academically. 
Thus  he  delicately  but  plainly  made  it  known  to  the 
outfit  that  he  proposed  to  keep  his  mind  as  clean 
as  his  conduct. 

Such  a  curiosity  as  Mat  was  naturally  closely 
studied.  The  combined  intelligence  of  the  outfit  was 
trained  upon  him,  for  some  time  without  result.  He 
was  the  knottiest  puzzle  that  ever  hit  Cross  Canon. 
At  first  he  was  suspected  of  religious  scruples  and 
nicknamed  "Circuit  Rider."  But  presently  it  be- 
came apparent  that  he  owned  ability  and  will  to  curse 
a  fighting  outlaw  bronco  till  the  burning  desert  air 
felt  chill,  and  it  became  plain  he  feared  God  as  little 
as  man.  Mat  had  joined  the  outfit  in  the  Autumn, 
when  for  several  weeks  it  was  on  the  jump ;  first  gath- 
ering and  shipping  beeves,  then  branding  calves, 
[172] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

lastly  moving  the  herd  down  to  its  Winter  range  on 
the  San  Juan.  Throughout  this  period  Cross 
€anon's  puzzle  remained  hopeless;  but  the  very  first 
evening  after  the  outfit  went  into  Winter  quarters  at 
the  home  ranch,  the  puzzle  was  solved. 

Ranch  mails  were  always  small,  no  matter  how  in- 
frequent their  coming  or  how  large  the  outfit.  The 
owner's  business  involved  little  correspondence,  the 
boys'  sentiments  inspired  less.  Few  with  close  home- 
ties  exiled  themselves  on  the  range.  Many  were  "  on 
the  scout"  from  the  scene  of  some  remote  shooting 
scrape  and  known  by  no  other  than  a  nickname.  For 
most  of  them  such  was  the  rarity  of  letters  that  often 
have  I  seen  a  cowboy  turning  and  studying  an  un- 
opened envelope  for  a  half-day  or  more,  wondering 
whoever  it  was  from  and  guessing  whatever  its  con- 
tents could  be.  Thus  it  was  one  of  the  great  sensa- 
tions of  the  season  for  McTigh  and  his  red-sashers, 
when  the  ranch  cook  produced  five  letters  for  Circuit 
Rider,  all  addressed  in  the  same  neat  feminine  hand, 
all  bearing  the  same  post  mark.  And  when,  while  the 
rest  were  washing  for  supper,  disposing  of  war  sacks, 
or  "making  down"  blankets,  Mat  squatted  in  the 
chimney  corner  to  read  his  letters,  Lee  Skeats  impres- 
sively whispered  to  Priest  : 

"Ben,  I  jest  nachally  hope  never  to  cock  another 
gun  ef  that  thar  little  ol'  Circuit  hain't  got  a  gal 
that  's  stuck  to  him  tighter'n  a  tick  makin'  a  gotch 
[173] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ear,  or  that  ain't  got  airy  damn  thing  to  do  to  hum 
but  write  letters.  Size  o'  them  five  he  's  got  must  'a 
kept  her  settin'  up  nights  to  make  'em  ever  since  Cir- 
cuit jumped  the  hum  reservation.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  a  feller  gettin'  five  letters  from  a  gal  to  wonst?" 

"I  shore  never  did,"  answered  Ben;  "Circuit 
must  'a  been  'prentice  to  some  big  Medicine  Man  back 
among  his  tribe  and  have  a  bagful  o'  hoodoos  hid  out 
somewhere.  He  ain't  so  damn  hi  jus  to  look  at,  but 
he  shore  never  knocked  no  gal  plum  loco  that  away 
with  his  p'rsn'l  beauty.  Must  be  some  sort  o'  Injun 
medicine  he  works." 

"Cain't  be  from  his  mother,"  cogitated  Lee. 
"Writin'  ain't  trembly  none  —  looks  like  it  was  writ 
by  a  school-marm,  an'  a  lally-cooler  at  that.  Cir- 
cuit will  have  to  git  one  o'  them  pianer-like  writin' 
makers  and  keep  poundin'  it  on  the  back  till  it  hollers, 
ef  he  allows  to  lope  close  up  in  that  gal's  writin'  class. 

"Lord!  but  won't  thar  be  fun  for  us  all  Winter 
he'pin'  him  'tend  to  his  correspondence ! 

"  Let 's  you  an'  me  slip  round  and  tip  off  the  outfit 
to  shet  up  till  after  supper,  an'  then  all  be  ready  with 
a  hot  line  o'  useful  hints  'bout  his  answerin'  her." 

Ben  joyously  fell  in  with  Lee's  plan.  The  tips 
were  quickly  passed  round.  But  none  of  the  hints 
were  ever  given,  not  a  single  one.  A  facer  lay  ahead 
of  them  beside  which  the  mere  receipt  of  the  five  let- 
ters was  nothing.  To  be  sure,  the  letters  were  the 
[174] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANGOS 

greatest  sensation  the  outfit  had  enjoyed  since  they 
stood  off  successfully  two  troops  of  U.  S.  Cavalry, 
come  to  arrest  them  for  killing  twenty  maurauding 
Utes.  But  what  soon  followed  filled  them  with  an 
astonishment  that  stilled  their  mischievous  tongues, 
stirred  sentiments  long  dormant,  and  ultimately,  in  a 
measure,  tuned  their  own  heart-strings  into  chord 
with  the  sweet  melody  ringing  over  Circuit's  own. 

Supper  was  called,  and  upon  it  the  outfit  fell  —  all 
but  Circuit.  They  attacked  it  wolf-fashion  accord- 
ing to  their  habit,  bolting  the  steaming  food  in  a 
silence  absolute  but  for  the  crunching  of  jaws  and  the 
shrill  hiss  of  sipped  coffee.  The  meal  was  half  over 
before  Circuit,  the  last  letter  finished,  tucked  his  five 
treasures  inside  his  shirt,  stepped  over  the  bench  to  a 
vacant  place  at  the  table,  and  hastily  swallowed  a 
light  meal ;  in  fact  he  rose  while  the  rest  were  still  busy 
gorging  themselves.  And  before  Lee  or  the  others 
were  ready  to  launch  at  Circuit  any  shafts  of  their 
rude  wit,  his  manoeuvres  struck  them  dumb  with 
curiosity. 

Having  hurried  from  the  table  direct  to  his  bunk, 
Circuit  was  observed  delving  in  the  depths  of  his  war 
sack,  out  of  which  he  produced  a  set  of  clean  under- 
clothing, complete  from  shirt  to  socks,  and  a  razor. 
Besides  these  he  carefully  laid  out  his  best  suit  of  store 
clothes,  and  from  beneath  the  "heading"  of  the  bunk 
he  pulled  a  new  pair  of  boots.  All  this  was  done  with 
[175] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

a  rapidity  and  method  that  evinced  some  set  purpose 
which  the  outfit  could  not  fathom,  a  purpose  become 
the  more  puzzling  when,  five  minutes  later,  Circuit  re- 
turned from  the  kitchen  bearing  the  cook's  wash-tub 
and  a  pail  of  warm  water.  The  tub  he  deposited  and 
filled  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  bunk-room,  and 
shortly  thereafter  was  stripped  to  the  buff,  labori- 
ously bathing  himself.  The  bath  finished,  Circuit 
carefully  shaved,  combed  his  hair,  and  dressed  him- 
self in  his  cleanest  and  best. 

While  he  was  dressing,  Bill  Ball  caught  breath 
enough  to  whisper  to  Lee :  "  By  cripes !  I've  got  it. 
Circuit 's  got  a  hunch  some  feller  's  tryin'  to  rope  an' 
hobble  his  gal,  an'  he  's  goin'  to  ask  Tom  for  his  time, 
fork  a  cayuse,  an'  hit  a  lope  for  a  railroad  that'll 
take  him  to  whatever  little  ol'  humanyville  his  gal 
lives  at." 

"  Lope  hell,"  answered  Lee ;  "  it 's  a  run  he  's  goin' 
to  hit,  with  one  spur  in  the  shoulder  an'  th'  other  in 
th'  flank.  Why,  th'  way  he  's  throwin'  that  whisker- 
cutter  at  his  face,  he  's  plumb  shore  to  dewlap  and 
wattle  his  fool  self  till  you  could  spot  him  in  airy  herd 
o'  humans  as  fer  as  you  could  see  him." 

But  Bill's  guess  proved  wide  of  the  mark. 

As  soon  as  Circuit's  dressing  was  finished  and  he 
had  received  assurance  from  the  angular  fragment  of 
mirror  nailed  above  the  wash-basin  that  his  hair  was 
smoothly  combed  and  a  new  neckerchief  neatly  knot- 

[176] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

ted,  he  produced  paper  and  an  envelope  from  his  war 
sack,  seated  himself  at  the  end  of  the  long  dinner- 
table,  farthest  from  the  fireplace,  lighted  a  fresh 
candle,  spread  out  his  five  treasures,  carefully  sharp- 
ened a  stub  pencil,  and  duly  set  its  lead  end  a-soak 
in  his  mouth,  preparatory  to  the  composition  of  a 
letter.  The  surprise  was  complete.  Such  pains- 
taking preparation  and  elaborate  costuming  for  the 
mere  writing  of  a  letter  none  present  —  or  absent,  for 
that  matter  —  had  ever  heard  of.  But  it  was  all  so 
obviously  eloquent  of  a  most  tender  respect  for  his 
correspondent  that  boisterous  voices  were  hushed, 
and  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  Cross  Canon- 
ites  sat  covertly  watching  the  puckered  brows,  drawn 
mouth,  and  awkwardly  crawling  pencil  of  the  writer. 

Presently  Lee  gently  nudged  Ball  and  passed  a 
wink  to  the  rest ;  then  all  rose  and  softly  tiptoed  their 
way  to  the  kitchen. 

Comfortably  squatted  on  his  heels  before  the  cook's 
fireplace,  Lee  quietly  observed :  "  Fellers,  I  allow  it  's 
up  to  us  to  hold  a  inquest  on  th'  remains  o'  my  idee 
about  stringin'  Circuit  over  that  thar  gal  o'  his'n.  I 
moves  that  th'  idee  's  done  died  a-bornin',  an'  that  we 
bury  her.  All  that  agrees,  say  so ;  any  agin  it,  say 
so,  'n'  then  git  their  guns  an'  come  outside." 

There  were  no  dissenting  votes,  Lee's  motion  was 
unanimously  carried. 

"Lee  's  plumb  right,"  whispered  McTigh;  "that 
[177] 


THE  RED-ELOODED 

kid  's  got  it  harder  an'  worse  than  airy  feller  I  ever 
heerd  tell  of,  too  hard  for  us  to  lite  in  stringin'  him 
'bout  it.  Never  had  no  gal  myself;  leastways,  no 
good  one ;  been  allus  like  a  old  buffalo  bull  whipped 
out  o'  th'  herd,  sorta  flockin'  by  my  lonesome,  an'  — 
an'- —  "  with  a  husky  catch  of  the  voice,  "  an'  that  thar 
kid  'minds  me  I  must  a'  been  missin'  a  hell  of  a  lot  hit 
'pears  to  me  I  would  n't  have  no  great  trouble  gittin' 
to  like." 

Then  for  a  time  there  was  silence  in  the  kitchen. 

Crouching  over  his  pots,  the  black  cook  stared  in 
surprised  inquiry  at  the  semicircle  of  grim  bronzed 
faces,  now  dimly  lit  by  the  flickering  embers  and  then 
for  a  moment  sharply  outlined  by  the  flash  of  a 
cigarette  deeply  inhaled  by  nervous  lips.  The  situa- 
tion was  tense.  In  each  man  emotions  long  dormant, 
or  perhaps  by  some  never  before  experienced,  were 
tumultuously  surging ;  surging  the  more  tumultuously 
for  their  long  dormancy  or  first  recognition.  Pres- 
ently in  a  low,  hoarse  voice  that  scarcely  carried 
round  the  semicircle,  Chillili  Jim  spoke : 

"Fellers,  Circuit  shore  'minds  me  pow'ful  strong 
o'  my  ol'  mammy.  She  was  monstrous  lovin'  to  we- 
uns ;  an'  th'  way  she  scrubbed  an'  fixed  up  my  ol'  pa 
when  he  comes  home  from  the  break-up  o'  Terry's 
Rangers,  with  his  ol'  carcass  'bout  as  full  o'  rents  an' 
holes  as  his  ragged  gray  war  clothes !  Allus  have 
tho't  ef  I  could  git  to  find  a  gal  stuck  on  me  like 
[178] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

mammy  on  pa,  I'd  drop  my  rope  on  her,  throw  her 
into  th'  home  ranch  pasture,  an'  nail  up  th'  gate  fer 
keeps." 

"  'Minds  me  o'  goin'  to  meetin'  when  I  was  a  six- 
year-old,"  mused  Mancos  Mitch;  "when  Circuit's 
pencil  got  to  smokin'  over  th'  paper  an'  we-uns  got 
so  dedburned  still,  'peared  to  me  like  I  was  back  in 
th'  little  ol'  meetin'-house  in  th'  mosquito  clearin',  on 
th'  banks  o'  th'  Leona  in  ol'  Uvalde  County.  Th'  air 
got  that  quar  sort  o'  dead  smell  'ligion  allus  'pears  to 
give  to  meetin'-houses,  an'  I  could  hear  th'  ol'  pa'son 
a-tellin'  us  how  it  's  th'  lovinest  that  allus  gits  th' 
longest  end  o'  th'  rope  o'  life.  Hits  me  now  that  ther 
ol'  sky  scout  was  'bout  right.  Feller  cain't  possibly 
keep  busy  all  th'  love  in  his  system,  workin'  it  off  on 
nothin'  but  a  pet  hoss  or  gun ;  thar  's  allus  a  hell  of  a 
lot  you  did  n't  know  you  had  comes  oozin'  out  when 
a  proper  piece  o'  calico  lets  you  next." 

"  Boys,"  cut  in  Bill  Ball,  the  dean  of  the  outfit's 
shooters-up  of  town  and  shooters-out  of  dance-hall 
lights;  "boys,  I  allow  it  's  up  to  me  to  'pologize  to 
Circuit.  Ef  I  was  n't  such  a  damned  o'nery  kiyote 
I'd  o'  caught  on  befo'.  But  I  hain't  been  runnin'  with 
th'  drags  o'  th'  she  herd  so  long  that  I  can't  'predate 
th'  feelin's  o'  a  feller  that  's  got  a  good  gal  stuck  on 
him,  like  Circuit.  Ef  I  had  one,  you-all  kin  gamble 
yer  alee  all  bets  would  be  off  with  them  painted  dance- 
hall  beer  jerkers,  an'  it  would  be  out  in  th'  brush  fo' 
[179] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

me  while  th'  corks  was  poppin',  gals  cussin',  red-eye 
flowin',  an'  chips  rattlin'.  That  thar  little  ol'  kid  has 
my  'spects,  an'  ef  airy  o'  th'  Blue  Mountain  outfit 
tries  to  string  him  'bout  not  runnin'  with  them  oreide 
propositions,  I  '11  hand  'em  lead  till  my  belt 's  empty." 

Ensued  a  long  silence;  at  length,  by  common  con- 
sent the  inquest  was  adjourned,  and  the  members  of 
the  jury  returned  to  the  bunk-room,  quiet  and  solemn 
as  men  entering  a  death  chamber.  There  at  the  table 
before  the  guttering  candle  still  sat  Circuit,  his  hair 
now  badly  tousled,  his  upper  lip  blackened  with  pencil 
lead,  his  brows  more  deeply  puckered,  his  entire  under- 
lip  apparently  swallowed,  the  table  littered  with  rude- 
ly scrawled  sheets. 

Slipping  softly  to  their  respective  bunks,  the  boys 
peeled  and  climbed  into  their  blankets.  And  there 
they  all  lay,  wide-awake  but  silent,  for  an  hour  or 
two,  some  watching  Circuit  curiously,  some  enviously, 
others  staring  fixedly  into  the  dying  fire  until  from 
its  dull-glowing  embers  there  rose  for  some  visions  of 
bare-footed,  nut-brown,  fustian-clad  maids,  and  for 
others  the  finer  lines  of  silk  and  lace  draped  figures, 
now  long  since  passed  forever  out  of  their  lives. 
Those  longest  awake  were  privileged  to  witness  Cir- 
cuit's final  offering  at  the  shrine  of  his  love. 

His  letter  finished,  enclosed,  addressed,  and 
stamped,  he  kissed  it  and  laid  it  aside,  apparently  all 
unconscious  of  the  presence  of  his  mates,  as  he  had 
[180] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

been  since  beginning  his  letter.  Then  he  drew  from 
beneath  his  shirt  something  none  of  them  had  seen 
before,  a  buckskin  bag,  out  of  which  he  pulled  a  fat 
blank  memorandum  book,  into  which  he  proceeded  to 
copy,  in  as  small  a  hand  as  he  could  write,  every 
line  of  his  sweetheart's  letters.  Later  they  learned 
that  this  bag  and  its  contents  never  left  Circuit's 
body,  nestled  always  over  his  heart,  suspended  by  a 
buckskin  thong! 

Out  of  the  close  intimacies  cow-camp  life  promotes, 
it  was  not  long  before  the  well-nigh  overmastering 
curiosity  of  the  outfit  was  satisfied.  They  learned 
how  the  "little  ol'  blue-eyed  sorrel  top,"  as  Bill  Ball 
had  christened  her,  had  vowed  to  wait  faithfully  till 
Circuit  could  earn  and  save  enough  to  make  them  a 
home,  and  how  Circuit  had  sworn  to  look  into  no 
woman's  eyes  till  he  could  again  look  into  hers.  Be- 
fore many  months  had  passed,  Circuit's  regular  week- 
ly letter  to  Netty  —  regular  when  on  the  ranch  — 
and  the  ceremonial  purification  and  personal  decking 
that  preceded  it,  had  become  for  the  Cross  Canon 
outfit  a  public  ceremony  all  studiously  observed. 
None  were  ever  too  tired,  none  too  grumpy,  to  wash, 
shave,  and  "  slick  up  "  of  letter  nights,  scrupulously 
as  Moslems  bathe  their  feet  before  approaching  the 
shrine  of  Mahomet ;  and  still  as  Moslems  before  their 
shrine  all  sat  about  the  bunk-room  while  Circuit  wrote 
his  letter  and  copied  Netty's  last.  Indeed,  more  than 
[181] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

one  well-started  wild  town  orgy  was  stopped  short  by 
one  of  the  boys  remarking:  "Cut  it,  you  kiyotes! 
Netty  would  n't  like  it ! " 

And  thus  the  months  rolled  on  till  they  stacked  up 
into  years,  but  the  interchange  of  letters  never  ceased 
and  the  burden  of  Circuit's  buckskin  bag  grew  heavier. 

Twice  Circuit  ventured  a  financial  coup,  and  both 
times  lost  —  invested  his  savings  in  horses,  losing  one 
band  to  Arizona  rustlers,  and  the  other  to  Mancos 
Jim's  Pah-Utes.  After  the  last  experience  he  took 
no  further  chances  and  settled  down  to  the  slow  but 
sure  plan  of  hoarding  his  wages. 

Come  the  Fall  of  the  eighth  year  of  his  exile  from 
Netty,  Circuit  had  accumulated  two  thousand  dollars, 
and  it  was  unanimously  voted  by  the  Cross  Canon  out- 
fit, gathered  in  solemn  conclave  at  Circuit's  request, 
that  he  might  venture  to  return  to  claim  her.  And  be- 
fore the  conclave  was  adjourned,  Lee  Skeats,  the 
chairman,  remarked :  "  Circuit,  ef  Netty  shows  airy 
sign  o'  balkin'  at  th'  size  o'  your  bank  roll,  you  kin 
jes'  tell  her  that  thar  's  a  bunch  out  here  in  Cross 
Canon  that's  been  lovin'  her  sort  o'  by  proxy, 
that'll  chip  into  your  matrimonial  play,  plumb 
double  the  size  o'  your  stack,  jest  fo'  th'  hono*  o' 
meetin'  up  wi'  her  an'  th'  pleasure  o'  seein'  their 
pardner  hitched." 

The  season's  work  done  and  the  herd  turned  loose 
on  its  Winter  range  on  the  San  Juan,  the  outfit  de- 
[182] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

cided  to  escort  Circuit  into  Mancos  and  there  cele- 
brate his  coming  nuptials.  For  them  the  one  hundred 
and  seventy  intervening  miles  of  alternating  canon 
and  mesa,  much  of  the  journey  over  trails  deadly 
dangerous  for  any  creature  less  sure-footed  than  a 
goat,  was  no  more  than  a  pleasant  pasear.  Thus  it 
was  barely  high  noon  of  the  third  day  when  the  thirty 
Cross  Canonites  reached  their  destination. 

Deep  down  in  a  mighty  gorge,  nestled  beside  the 
stream  that  gave  its  name  alike  to  canon  and  to  town, 
Manctis  stewed  contentedly  in  a  temperature  that 
would  try  the  strength  and  temper  of  any  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  climate  of  southwestern  Colorado. 
Framed  in  Franciscan-gray  sage  brush,  itself  gray  as 
the  sage  with  the  dust  of  pounding  hoofs  and  rushing 
whirlwinds,  at  a  little  distance  Mancos  looked  like 
an  aggregation  of  dead  ash  heaps,  save  where,  here 
and  there,  dabs  of  faded  paint  lent  a  semblance  of 
patches  of  dying  embers. 

While  raw,  uninviting,  and  even  melancholy  in  its 
every  aspect,  for  the  scattered  denizens  of  a  vast  re- 
gion round  about  Mancos's  principal  street  was  the 
local  Great  White  Way  that  furnished  all  the  fun  and 
frolic  most  of  them  ever  knew.  To  it  flocked  miners 
from  their  dusky,  pine-clad  gorges  in  the  north, 
grangers  from  the  then  new  farming  settlement  in  the 
Montezuma  Valley,  cowboys  from  Blue  Mountain,  the 
Dolores,  and  the  San  Juan;  Navajos  from  Chillili, 
[183] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Utes  from  their  reservation  —  a  motley  lot  burn- 
ing with  untamed  elemental  passions  that  called  for 
pleasure  "  straight." 

Joyously  descending  upon  the  town  at  a  breakneck 
lope  before  a  following  high  wind  that  completely 
shrouded  them  in  clouds  of  dust,  it  was  not  until  they 
pulled  up  before  their  favorite  feed  corral  that  the 
outfit  learned  that  Mancos  was  revelling  in  quite  the 
reddest  red-letter  day  of  its  existence,  the  day  of  its 
first  visitation  by  a  circus  —  and  also  its  last  for 
many  a  year  thereafter. 

In  the  eighties  Mancos  was  forty  miles  from  the 
nearest  railway,  but  news  of  the  reckless  extrava- 
gances of  its  visiting  miners  and  cowboys  tempted 
Fells  Brothers'  "  Greatest  Aggregation  on  Earth  of 
Ring  Artists  and  Monsters  "  to  visit  it.  Dusted  and 
costumed  outside  of  town,  down  the  main  street  of 
Mancos  the  circus  bravely  paraded  that  morning,  its 
red  enameled  paint  and  gilt,  its  many-tinted  tights  and 
spangles,  making  a  perfect  riot  of  brilliant  colors  over 
the  prevailing  dull  gray  of  valley  and  town. 

Streets,  stores,  saloons,  and  dance  halls  were 
swarming  with  the  outpouring  of  the  ranches  and  the 
mines,  men  who  drank  abundantly  but  in  the  main  a 
rollicking,  good-natured  lot. 

While  the  Cross  Canonites  were  liquoring  at  the 
Fashion  Bar  (Circuit  drinking  sarsaparilla),  Lame 
Johny,  the  barkeeper,  remarked:  "You-uns  missed 
[184] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

it  a  lot,  not  seein'  the  pr'cesh.  She  were  a  ring-tailed 
tooter  for  fair,  with  the  damnedest  biggest  noise- 
makin'  band  you  ever  heard,  an5  th'  p'rformers  wear- 
in'  more  pr'tys  than  I  ever  allowed  was  made.  An' 
say,  they've  got  a  gal  in  th'  bunch,  rider  I  reckon, 
that's  jest  that  damned  good  to  look  at  it  hurts. 
Damned  ef  I  kin  git  her  outen  my  eyes  yet.  Say, 
she 's  shore  prittier  than  airy  red  wagon  in  th'  show 
—  built  like  a  quarter  horse,  got  eyes  like  a  doe,  and 
a  sorrel  mane  she  could  hide  in.  She  's  sure  a  chile 
con  came  proposition,  if  I  ever  see  one." 

"  Huh ! "  grunted  Lee ;  "  may  be  a  good-looker,  but 
I'll  gamble  she  ain't  in  it  with  our  Sorrel-top;  hey, 
boys?  Here  's  to  our  Sorrel-top,  fellers,  an'  th'  day 
Circuit  prances  into  Mancos  wi'  her." 

Several  who  tried  to  drink  and  cheer  at  the  same 
time  lost  much  of  their  liquor,  but  none  of  their  en- 
thusiasm. After  dinner  at  Charpiot's,  a  wretched 
counterfeit  of  the  splendid  old  Denver  restaurant  of 
that  name,  the  Cross  Canonites  joined  the  throng 
streaming  toward  the  circus. 

For  his  sobriety  designated  treasurer  of  the  outfit 
for  the  day  and  night,  Circuit  marched  up  to  the  ticket 
wagon,  passed  in  a  hundred  dollar  bill  and  asked  for 
thirty  tickets.  The  tickets  and  change  were  promptly 
handed  him.  On  the  first  count  the  change  appeared 
to  be  correct,  but  on  a  recount  Circuit  found  the 
ticket-seller  had  cunningly  folded  one  twenty  double, 
[185] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

so  that  it  appeared  as  two  bills  instead  of  one.  Turn- 
ing immediately  to  the  ticket-seller,  Circuit  showed 
the  deception  and  demanded  correction. 

"Change  was  right;  you  can't  dope  and  roll  me; 
gwan ! "  growled  the  ticket-agent. 

"  But  it 's  plumb  wrong,  an'  you  can't  rob  me  none, 
you  kiyote,"  answered  Circuit;  "hand  out  another 
twenty,  and  do  it  sudden ! " 

"  Chase  yourself  to  hell,  you  bow-legged  hold-up," 
threatened  the  ticket-seller. 

When,  a  moment  later,  the  ticket  man  plunged  out 
of  the  door  of  his  wagon  wildly  yelling  for  his  clan,  it 
was  with  eyes  flooding  with  blood  from  a  gash  in  his 
forehead  due  to  a  resentful  tap  from  the  barrel  of  Cir- 
cuit's gun. 

Almost  in  an  instant  pandemonium  reigned  and 
a  massacre  was  imminent.  Stalwart  canvasmen 
rushed  to  their  chief's  call  till  Circuit's  bunch  were  out- 
numbered three  to  one  by  tough  trained  battlers  on 
many  a  tented  field,  armed  with  hand  weapons  of  all 
sorts.  Victors  these  men  usually  were  over  the  town 
roughs  it  was  customarily  theirs  to  handle;  but  here 
before  them  was  a  bunch  not  to  be  trifled  with,  a 
quiet  group  of  thirty  bronzed  faces,  some  grinning 
with  the  anticipated  joy  of  the  combat  they  loved, 
some  grim  as  death  itself,  each  affectionately  twirling 
a  gleaming  gun.  One  overt  act  on  the  part  of  the 
circus  men,  and  down  they  would  go  like  ninepins, 

[186] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

and  they  knew  it  —  knew  it  so  well  that,  within  two 
minutes  after  they  had  assembled,  all  dodged  into  and 
lost  themselves  in  the  throng  of  onlookers  like  rabbits 
darting  into  their  warrens. 

"Mighty  pore  'pology  for  real  men,  them  ele- 
phant busters,"  disgustedly  observed  Bill  Ball. 
"  Come  on,  fellers,  le's  go  in." 

"Nix  for  me,"  spoke  up  Circuit;  "I'm  that  hot 
in  the  collar  over  him  tryin'  to  rob  me  I've  got  no  use 
for  their  old  show.  You-all  go  in,  an'  I'll  go  down  to 
Chapps'  and  fix  my  traps  to  hit  the  trail  for  the  rail- 
road in  the  mornin'." 

On  the  crest  of  a  jutting  bastion  of  the  lofty  es- 
carpment that  formed  the  west  wall  of  the  canon,  the 
sun  lingered  for  a  good-night  kiss  of  the  eastern  cliffs 
which  it  loved  to  paint  every  evening  with  all  the  bril- 
liant colors  of  the  spectrum;  it  lingered  over  loving 
memories  of  ancient  days  when  every  niche  of  the 
Mancos  cliffs  held  its  little  bronze-hued  line  of  primi- 
tive worshippers,  old  and  young,  devout,  prostrate, 
fearful  of  their  Red  God's  nightly  absences,  suppliant 
of  his  return  and  continued  largess ;  over  memories  of 
ceremonials  and  pastimes  barbaric  in  their  elemental 
violence,  but  none  more  primitively  savage  than  the 
new  moon  looked  down  upon  an  hour  later. 

Supper  over,  on  motion  of  Lee  Skeats  the  Cross 
Canonites  had  adjourned  to  the  feed  corral  and  gone 
into  executive  session. 

[187] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Lee  called  the  meeting  to  order. 

"Fellers,"  he  said,  "that  dod-burned  show  makes 
my  back  tired.  A  few  geezers  an'  gals  flipfloopin' 
in  swings  an'  a  bunch  o'  dead  ones  on  ol'  broau -backed 
work  hosses  that  calls  theirselves  riders !  Shucks ! 
thar  hain't  one  o'  th'  lot  could  sit  a  real  twister  long 
enough  to  git  his  seat  warm;  about  th'  second  jump 
would  have  'em  clawin'  sand. 

"  Only  thing  in  their  hull  circus  wo'th  lookin' 
at  is  that  red-maned  gal,  an'  she  looks  that  sweet  an' 
innercent  she  don't  'pear  to  rightly  belong  in  that 
thar  bare-legged  bunch  o'  she  dido-cutters.  They-all 
must  'a  mavericked  her  recent.  Looks  like  a  pr'ty 
ripe  red  apple  among  a  lot  o'  rotten  ones. 

"  Hated  like  hell  to  see  her  thar,  specially  with  next 
to  nothin'  on,  fer  somehow  I  could  n't  help  her  'mind- 
in'  me  o'  our  Sorrel-top.  Reckon  ef  we  busted  up  their 
damn  show,  that  gal'd  git  to  stay  a  while  in  a  decent 
woman's  sort  o'  clothes.  What  say,  shall  we  bust 
her?" 

"  Fer  one,  I  sits  in  an'  draw  cards  in  your  play 
cheerful,"  promptly  responded  Bill  Ball;  "kind  o' 
hurt  me  too  to  see  Reddy  thar.  An'  then  them  ani- 
miles  hain't  gittin'  no  squar'  deal.  Never  did  believe 
in  cagin'  animiles  more'n  men.  Ef  they  need  it  bad, 
kill  'em ;  ef  they  don't,  give  'm  a  run  f o'  their  money, 
way  ol'  Mahster  meant  'em  to  have  when  He  made  'em. 
Let's  all  saddle  up,  ride  down  thar,  tie  onto  their  tents, 
[188] 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

an'  pull  'em  down,  an'  then  bust  open  them  cages  an* 
give  every  dod-blamed  animile  th'  liberty  I  allows  he 
loves  same  as  humans !  An'  then,  jest  to  make  sure 
she's  a  good  job,  le's  whoop  all  their  hosses  ove'  to 
th'  Dolores  an'  scatter  'em  through  th'  pinons ! " 

Bill's  motion  was  unanimously  carried,  even  Cir- 
cuit cheerfully  consenting,  from  memories  of  the  out- 
rage attempted  upon  him  earlier  in  the  day.  Ten 
minutes  later  the  outfit  charged  down  upon  the  cir- 
cus at  top  speed,  arriving  among  the  first  comers  for 
the  evening  performance.  Flaming  oil  torches  lit  the 
scene,  making  it.  bright  almost  as  day. 

By  united  action,  thirty  lariats  were  quickly  looped 
round  guy  ropes  and  snubbed  to  saddle  horns,  and 
then,  incited  by  simultaneous  spur  digs  and  yells, 
thirty  fractious  broncos  bounded  away  from  the  tent, 
fetching  it  down  in  sheets  and  ribbons,  ropes  popping 
like  pistols,  the  rent  canvas  shrieking  like  a  creature 
in  pain,  startled  animals  threshing  about  their  cages 
and  crying  their  alarm.  Cowboys  were  never  slow 
at  anything  they  undertook.  In  three  minutes  more 
the  side  shows  were  tentless,  the  dwarfs  trying  to 
swarm  up  the  giant's  sturdy  legs  to  safety  or  to  hide 
among  the  adipose  wrinkles  of  the  fat  lady,  and  the 
outfit  tackled  the  cages. 

In  another  three  minutes  the  elephant,  with  a  so- 
ciable shot  through  his  off  ear  to  make  sure  he  should 
not  tarry,  was  thundering  down  Mancos's  main  street, 
[189] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

trumpeting  at  every  jump,  followed  by  the  lion,  the 
great  tuft  of  hair  at  the  end  of  his  tail  converted,  by 
a  happy  thought  of  Lee  Skeats,  into  a  brightly  blaz- 
ing torch  that,  so  long  as  the  fuel  lasted,  lighted  the 
shortest  cut  to  freedom  for  his  escaping  mates  —  for 
the  lion  hit  as  close  a  bee-line  as  possible  trying  to 
outrun  his  own  tail.  For  the  outfit,  it  was  the  lark  of 
their  lives.  Crashing  pistol  shots  and  ringing  yells 
bore  practical  testimony  to  their  joy.  But  they  were 
not  to  have  it  entirely  their  own  way. 

Just  as  they  were  all  balled  up  before  the  rhi- 
noceros, staggered  a  bit  by  his  great  bulk  and 
threatening  horn,  out  upon  them  charged  a  body  of 
canvasmen,  all  the  manager  could  contrive  to  rally, 
for  a  desperate  effort  to  stop  the  damage  and  avenge 
the  outrage.  In  their  lead  ran  the  ticket-seller,  armed 
with  a  pistol  and  keen  for  evening  up  things  with  the 
man  who  had  hit  him,  dashing  straight  for  Circuit. 
Circuit  did  not  see  him,  but  Lee  did ;  and  thus  in  the 
very  instant  Circuit  staggered  and  dropped  to 
the  crack  of  his  pistol,  down  beside  Circuit  pitched  the 
ticket  man  with  a  ball  through  his  head.  Then  for 
two  minutes,  perhaps,  a  hell  of  fierce  hand-to-hand 
battle  raged,  cowboy  skulls  crunching  beneath  fierce 
blows,  circus  men  falling  like  autumn  leaves  before  the 
cowboys'  fire.  And  so  the  fight  might  have  lasted  till 
all  were  down  but  for  a  startling  diversion. 

Suddenly,  just  as  Circuit  had  struggled  to  his  feet, 
[190] 


"Out  sprang  a  dainty  figure  in  tulle  and  tights,  and  fired  at 
the  nearest  of  the  common  enemy" 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

out  from  among  the  wrecked  wagons  sprang  a  dainty 
figure  in  tulle  and  tights,  masses  of  hair  red  as  the 
blood  of  the  battlers  streaming  in  waves  behind  her, 
and  fired  at  the  nearest  of  the  common  enemy,  which 
happened  to  be  poor  Circuit.  Swaying  for  a  moment 
with  the  shock  of  the  wound,  down  to  the  ground  he 
settled  like  an  empty  sack,  falling  across  the  legs  of 
the  ticket-seller. 

Startled  and  shocked,  it  seemed,  by  the  con- 
sequences of  her  deed,  the  woman  approached  and  for 
a  moment  gazed  down,  horror-stricken,  into  Circuit's 
face.  Then  suddenly,  with  a  shriek  of  agony,  she 
dropped  beside  him,  drew  his  head  into  her  lap,  wiped 
the  gathering  foam  from  his  lips,  fondled  and  kissed 
him.  Ripping  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck  to  find  his 
wound,  she  uncovered  Circuit's  buckskin  bag  and 
memorandum  book,  showing  through  its  centre  the 
track  of  a  bullet  that  had  finally  spent  itself  in  frac- 
turing a  rib  over  Circuit's  heart,  the  ticket-seller's 
shot,  that  would  have  killed  him  instantly  but  for  the 
shielding  bulk  Netty's  treasured  letters  interposed. 
Moved,  perhaps,  by  some  subtle  instinctive  suspicion 
of  its  contents,  she  glanced  within  the  book,  started  to 
remove  it  from  Circuit's  neck,  and  then  gently  laid  it 
back  above  the  heart  it  so  long  had  lain  next  and  so 
lately  had  shielded. 

Meantime  about  this  little  group  gathered  such  of 
the  Cross  Cafionites  as  were  still  upon  their  legs,  while, 
[191] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

glad  of  the  diversion,  their  enemies  hurriedly  with- 
drew ;  round  about  the  outfit  stood,  their  fingers  still 
clutching  smoking  guns,  but  pale  and  sobered. 

Circuit  lay  with  eyes  closed,  feebly  gasping  for 
breath,  and  just  as  the  girl's  nervous  fingers  further 
rent  his  shirt  and  exposed  the  mortal  wound  through 
the  right  lung  made  by  her  own  tiny  pistol,  Circuit 
half  rose  on  one  elbow  and  whispered :  "  Boys,  write 
—  write  Netty  I  was  tryin'  to  git  to  her." 

And  then  he  fell  back  and  lay  still. 

For  five  minutes,  perhaps,  the  girl  crouched  silent 
over  the  body,  gazing  wide-eyed  into  the  dead  face, 
stunned,  every  faculty  paralyzed. 

Presently  Lee  softly  spoke: 

"  Sis,  if,  as  I  allows,  you're  Netty,  you  shore  did 
Mat  a  good  turn  killin'  him  'fore  he  saw  you.  Would 
'a  hurt  him  pow'ful  to  see  you  in  this  bunch;  hurts 
us  'bout  enough,  I  reckon." 

Roused  from  contemplation  of  her  deed,  the  girl 
rose  to  her  knees,  still  clinging  to  Circuit's  stiffening 
fingers,  and  sobbingly  murmured,  in  a  voice  so  low 
the  awed  group  had  to  bend  to  hear  her : 

"  Yes,  I'm  Netty,  and  every  day  while  I  live  I  shall 
thank  God  Mat  never  knew.  This  is  my  husband  ly- 
ing dead  beneath  Mat.  They  made  me  do  it  —  my 
family  —  nagged  me  to  marry  Tom,  then  a  rich 
horse-breeder  of  our  county,  till  home  was  such  a  hell 
I  could  n't  stand  it.  It  was  four  long  years  ago,  and 
[1921 


CIRCUS  DAY  AT  MANCOS 

never  since  have  I  had  the  heart  to  own  to  Mat  the 
truth.  His  letters  were  my  greatest  joy,  and  they 
breathed  a  love  I  little  have  deserved." 

"  Reckon  that 's  dead  right,  Netty,"  broke  in  Bill 
Ball ;  "  hain't  a  bit  shore  myself  airy  critter  that  ever 
stood  up  in  petticoats  deserved  a  love  big  as  Circuit's. 
Excuse  us,  please." 

And  at  a  sign  from  Bill,  six  bent  and  gently  lifted 
the  body  and  bore  it  away  into  the  town. 

In  the  twilight  of  an  Autumn  day  that  happened  to 
be  the  twenty-second  anniversary  of  Circuit's  death, 
two  grizzled  old  ranchmen,  ambling  slowly  out  of 
Mancos  along  the  Dolores  trail,  rode  softly  up  to  a 
corner  of  the  burying  ground  and  stoppped.  There 
within,  hard  by,  a  woman  bent  and  gnarled  and  gray 
as  the  sage-brush  about  her,  was  tenderly  decking  a 
grave  with  pinon  wreaths. 

"  Hope  to  never  cock  another  gun,  Bill  Ball,  ef  she 
ain't  thar  ag'in ! " 

"  She  shore  is,  Lee,"  answered  Bill ;  "  provin'  we-all 
mislaid  no  bets  reconsiderin',  an'  stakin'  Sorrel-top  to 
a  little  ranch  and  brand." 

Thus,  happily,  does  time  sweeten  the  bitterest 
memories. 


[193] 


CHAPTER  IX 

ACROSS  THE   BORDER 

YES,  there  he  was,  just  ahead  of  me  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  Union  Depot  in  Kansas  City,  my 
partner,    James    Terry    Gardiner,    who    had 
wired  me  to  meet  him  there  a  few  weeks  after  I  had 
closed  the  sale  of  our  Deadman  Ranch,  in  November, 
1882.     While  his  back  was  turned  to  me,  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  lean  but  sturdy  figure  and  alert 
step. 

From  the  vigorous  slap  of  cordiality  I  gave  him 
on  the  shoulder,  he  winced  and  shrank,  crying :  "  Oh, 
please  don't,  old  man.  Been  sleeping  in  Mexican 
northers  for  a  fortnight,  and  it's  got  my  shoulder 
muscles  tied  in  rheumatic  knots.  Don  Nemecio  Gar- 
cia started  me  off  from  Lampasos  with  the  assurance 
that  my  ambulance  was  generously  provisioned  and 
provided  with  his  own  camp-bed,  but  when  night  of 
the  first  day's  journey  came,  I  found  the  food  limited 
to  tortillas,  chorisos,  and  coffee,  and  the  bed  a  sheep- 
skin—  no  more.  Stupid  of  an  old  campaigner  not  to 
investigate  his  equipment  before  starting,  was  it 
not?" 

"Worse  than  that,  I  should  say  —  sheer  madness," 
1  answered.      "  How  did  it  happen?  " 
[194] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

"Well,  you  see,  Don  Nemecio  is  the  Alcalde  of  his 
city,  and  he  showered  me  with  such  grandiloquent. 
Spanish  phrases  of  concern  for  my  comfort  that  I 
fancied  he  had  outfitted  me  in  extraordinary  luxury. 

"  But  that 's  over  now,  thank  goodness.  And  now 
to  business. 

"  In  the  north  of  the  State  of  Coahuila,  one  hundred 
miles  west  of  the  Rio  Grande  border,  lies  the  little 
town  called  Villa  de  Musquiz.  To  the  north  and 
west  of  it  for  two  hundred  miles  stretches  the  great 
plain  the  natives  call  El  Desierto,  known  on  the  map 
as  Bolson  de  Mapimi,  the  resort  of  none  but  bandits, 
smuggler  Lipans,  and  Mescaleros.  Into  it  the  na- 
tives never  venture,  and  little  of  it  is  known  except  the 
scant  information  brought  back  by  scouting  cavalry 
details. 

"  Just  south  of  the  town  lie  the  Cedral  Coal  Mines 
I  have  been  examining  —  but  that  is  neither  here  nor 
there.  What  I  want  to  know  is,  are  you  game  for  a 
new  ranch  deal  ?  " 

When  I  nodded  an  affirmative,  he  continued : 

"Well,  immediately  north  of  the  town  lies  a  tract 
of  250,000  acres  in  the  fork  of  the  Rio  Sabinas  and 
the  Rio  Alamo,  which  is  the  greatest  ranch  bargain 
I  ever  saw.  Heavily  grassed,  abundantly  watered 
by  its  two  boundary  streams,  the  valleys  thickly  tim- 
bered with  cottonwood,  the  plains  dotted  with  mes- 
quite  and  live  oak,  in  a  perfect  climate,  it  is  an  ideal 
[195] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

breeding  range.  And  it  can  be  bought,  for  what,  do 
you  think?  Fifty  thousand  Mexican  dollars  [29,- 
000  gold]  for  a  quarter  of  a  million  acres !  Go  bag 
it,  and  together  we'll  stock  it. 

"  Of  course  you'll  run  some  rather  heavy  risks  — 
else  the  place  would  not  be  going  so  cheap  —  but  no 
more  than  you  have  been  taking  the  last  five  years  in 
the  Sioux  country.  A  little  bunch  of  Lipans  are 
constantly  on  the  warpath,  Mescalero  raiding  parties 
drop  in  occasionally,  and  the  bandits  seem  to  need  a 
good  many  prestamos;  but  all  that  you  have  been  up 
against.  Better  take  a  pretty  strong  party,  for  the 
authorities  thought  it  necessary  to  give  me  a  cavalry 
escort  from  Lampasos  to  Musquiz  and  back.  And, 
by  the  way,  pick  up  a  boy  named  George  E.  Thorn- 
ton, of  Socorro,  N.  M.,  on  your  way  south.  While 
only  a  youngster,  he  is  one  of  the  best  all-round  fron- 
tiersmen I  ever  saw,  and  speaks  Spanish  tolerably. 
Had  him  with  me  in  the  Gallup  country." 

Details  were  settled  at  breakfast,  and  there  Gardi- 
ner resumed  his  journey  eastward,  while  I  took  the 
next  train  for  Denver.  A  fortnight  later  found  me 
in  Socorro,  plodding  through  its  sandy  streets  to  an 
adobe  house  in  the  suburbs  where  Thornton  lodged. 

As  I  neared  the  door  a  big  black  dog  sprang 
fiercely  out  at  me  to  the  full  length  of  his  chain,  and 
directly  thereafter  the  door  framed  an  extraordinary 
figure.  Then  barely  twenty-one,  and  downy  still  of 

[196] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

lip,  Thornton's  gray  eyes  were  as  cold  and  calculat- 
ing, the  lines  of  his  face  as  severe  and  even  hard,  his 
movements  as  deliberate  and  expressive  of  perfect 
self-mastery  as  those  of  any  veteran  of  half  a  dozen 
wars.  Six  feet  two  in  height,  straight  as  a  white 
pine,  ideally  coupled  for  great  strength  without  sac- 
rifice of  activity,  he  looked  altogether  one  of  the  most 
capable  and  safe  men  one  could  wish  for  in  a  scrap ; 
and  so,  later,  he  well  proved  himself. 

He  greeted  me  in  carefully  correct  English;  and 
while  quiet,  reserved,  and  cold  of  speech  as  of  manner, 
the  tones  in  which  he  assured  me  any  friend  of  Mr. 
Gardiner  was  welcome,  conveyed  faint  traces  of  cor- 
diality that  roused  some  hope  that  he  might  prove  a 
more  agreeable  camp-mate  than  his  dour  mien  prom- 
ised. We  were  not  long  coming  to  terms ;  indeed  the 
moment  I  outlined  the  trip  contemplated,  and  its  pos- 
sible hazards,  it  became  plain  he  was  keen  to  come  on 
any  terms.  To  my  surprise,  he  proposed  bringing 
his  dog,  Curly.  I  objected  that  so  heavy  a  dog 
would  be  likely  to  play  out  on  our  forced  marches, 
and,  anyway,  would  be  no  mortal  use  to  us.  His  re- 
ply was  characteristic: 

"  Curly  goes  if  I  go,  sir ;  but  any  time  you  can  tell 
me  you  find  him  a  nuisance,  I'll  shoot  him  myself. 
I've  had  him  four  years,  had  him  out  all  through 
Victoria's  raid  of  the  Gila,  and  he 's  a  safer  night 
guard  than  any  ten  men  you  can  string  around  camp : 
[197] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

nothing  can  approach  he  won't  nail  or  tell  you  of. 
With  Curly,  a  night-camp  surprise  is  impossible." 

Whatever  cross  Curly  represented  was  a  mystery. 
Two-thirds  the  height  and  weight  of  a  mastiff,  he  had 
the  broad  head  and  narrow  pointed  muzzle  of  a  bear, 
and  a  shaggy  reddish-black  coat  that  further  height- 
ened his  resemblance  to  a  cinnamon,  with  great  gray 
eyes  precisely  the  color  of  his  master's,  and  as  fierce. 
Whichever  character  was  formed  on  that  of  the  other 
I  never  learned — the  man's  on  the  dog's,  or  the  dog's 
on  the  man's.  Certain  it  is  that  not  even  the  luckiest 
chance  could  have  brought  together  man  and  beast 
so  nearly  identical  in  all  their  traits.  Both  were 
honest,  almost  to  a  fault.  Neither  possesssed  any  vice 
I  ever  could  discover.  Each  was  wholly  happy  only 
when  in  battle,  the  more  desperate  the  encounter  the 
happier  they.  Neither  ever  actually  forced  a  quar- 
rel, or  failed  to  get  in  the  way  of  one  when  there  was 
the  least  color  of  an  attempt  to  fasten  one  on  them. 
And  yet  both  were  always  considerate  of  any  weaker 
than  themselves,  and  quick  to  go  to  their  defence. 
Many  a  time  have  I  seen  old  Curly  seize  and  throttle 
a  big  dog  he  caught  rending  a  little  one  —  as  I  have 
seen  George  leap  to  the  aid  of  the  defenceless.  Each 
weighed  carefully  his  kind,  and  found  most  wanting 
in  something  requisite  to  the  winning  of  his  confi- 
dence; and  such  as  they  did  admit  to  familiar  inti- 
macy, man  or  beast,  were  the  salt  of  their  kind. 
[198] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

On  the  train,  south-bound  for  San  Antonio,  I 
learned  something  of  Thornton's  history.  The  son 
of  a  judge  of  Peoria,  111.,  he  had  until  fifteen  the 
advantage  of  the  best  schools  of  his  city.  Then,  pos- 
sessed with  a  longing  for  a  life  of  adventure  in  the 
West,  he  ran  away  from  home,  worked  in  various 
places  at  various  tasks,  until,  at  sixteen  (in  1887) 
he  had  made  his  way  to  Socorro.  Arrived  there,  he 
attached  himself  to  a  small  party  of  prospectors  go- 
ing out  into  the  Black  Range,  into  a  region  then  wild 
and  hostile  as  Boone  found  Kentucky.  And  there 
for  the  last  five  years  he  had  dwelt,  ranging  through 
the  Datils  and  the  Mogallons,  prospecting  whenever 
the  frequently  raiding  Apaches  left  him  and  his  mates 
time  for  work.  Indeed,  it  was  Thornton  who  discov- 
ered and  first  opened  the  Gallup  coal  field,  and  he 
held  it  until  Victoria  ran  him  out.  During  this  time 
he  was  in  eight  desperate  fights  —  the  only  man  to 
escape  from  one  of  them;  but  out  of  them  he  came 
unscathed,  and  trained  to  a  finish  in  every  trick  of 
Apache  warfare. 

At  San  Antonio  we  were  met  by  Sam  Cress,  who 
for  the  last  four  years  had  been  foreman  of  my  Dead- 
man  Ranch.  Cress  was  born  on  Powell  River,  Vir- 
ginia, but  had  come  to  Texas  as  a  mere  lad  and  joined 
a  cow  outfit.  He  had  really  grown  up  in  the  Cross 
Timbers  of  the  Palo  Pinto,  where,  in  those  years,  any 
who  survived  were  past  masters  not  only  of  the  weird 
[199] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ways  and  long  hours  and  outlaw  broncos,  but  also  of 
the  cunning  strategy  of  the  Kiowas  and  Comanches 
who  in  that  time  were  raiding  ranches  and  settlements 
every  "light  of  the  moon."  Cress  was  then  twenty- 
five —  just  my  age  —  and  one  of  the  rare  type  of  men 
who  actually  hate  and  dread  a  fight,  but  where  neces- 
sary, go  into  it  with  a  jest  and  come  out  of  it  with  a 
laugh,  as  jolly  a  camp-mate  and  as  steady  a  stayer 
as  I  ever  knew.  Charlie  Crawford,  a  half-breed  Mex- 
ican, taken  on  for  his  fluency  in  Spanish,  completed 
our  outfit.  Two  mornings  later  the  Mexican  Na- 
tional Express  dropped  us  at  the  Lampasos  depot 
about  daylight,  from  which  we  made  our  way  over  a 
mile  of  dusty  road  winding  through  mesquite  thickets 
to  the  Hotel  Diligencia,  on  the  main  plaza. 

A  norther  was  blowing  that  chilled  us  to  the  mar- 
row, and  of  course,  according  to  usual  Mexican  cus- 
tom, not  a  room  in  the  hotel  was  heated.  The  best 
the  little  Italian  proprietor  could  do  for  us  was  a 
pan  of  charcoal  that  warmed  nothing  beyond  our  fin- 
ger tips.  As  soon  as  the  sun  rose,  we  squatted  along 
the  east  wall  of  the  hotel  and  there  shivered  until 
Providence  or  his  own  necessity  brought  past  us  a 
peon  driving  a  burro  loaded  with  mesquite  roots. 
We  bought  this  wood  and  dumped  it  in  the  central 
patio  of  the  hotel  and  there  lighted  a  camp-fire  that 
made  us  tolerably  comfortable  until  breakfast. 

Ignorant  then  of  Mexico  and  its  customs,  I  had 
[200] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

fancied  that  when  a  proper  hour  arrived  for  a  call  on 
the  Alcalde,  Don  Nemecio  Garcia,  I  should  have  a 
chance  to  warm  myself  properly  and  had  charitably 
asked  my  three  mates  to  accompany  me  on  the  visit. 
But  when  at  ten  o'clock  Don  Nemecio  received  us  in 
his  office,  we  found  him  tramping  up  and  down  the 
room,  wrapped  in  the  warm  folds  of  an  ample  cloak, 
his  neck  and  face  swathed  in  mufflers  to  the  eyes,  arc- 
tics on  his  feet,  and  no  stove  or  fireplace  in  the  room. 
As  leading  merchant  of  the  town,  he  soon  supplied 
us  with  provisions  and  various  articles,  and  with  four 
saddle  and  three  pack  horses  for  our  journey. 

The  next  day,  while  my  men  were  busy  arranging 
our  camp  outfit,  I  took  train  for  Monterey  to  get  a 
letter  from  General  Trevino,  commanding  the  Depart- 
ment of  Coahuila,  to  the  comandante  of  the  garrison 
at  Musquiz.  On  this  short  forenoon's  journey  I  had 
my  first  taste  of  the  disordered  state  of  the  country. 

About  ten  o'clock  our  train  stopped  at  the  depot 
of  Villaldama,  where  I  observed  six  guardias  aduan- 
eras  (customs  guards)  removing  the  packs  from  a 
dozen  mules,  and  transferring  them  to  the  baggage 
car.  Just  as  this  work  was  nearing  completion,  a 
band  of  fourteen  contrdbandlstas  dashed  up  out  of 
the  surrounding  chaparral,  dropped  off  their  horses, 
and  opened  at  thirty  yards  a  deadly  fire  on  the 
guards.  With  others  in  the  smoker,  next  behind  the 
baggage  car,  I  had  a  fine  view  of  the  battle,  but  a  part 
[201] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

of  the  time  we  were  directly  in  the  line  of  fire,  for  four 
of  our  car  windows  were  smashed  by  bullets,  and  many 
bullets  were  buried  in  the  car  body.  Such  encoun- 
ters between  guards  and  smugglers  in  Mexico  .were 
always  a  fight  to  the  death,  for  under  the  law  the 
guards  received  one-half  the  value  of  their  captures, 
while  of  course  the  smugglers  stood  to  win  or  lose  all. 

As  soon  as  fire  opened,  the  guards  jumped  for  the 
best  cover  available,  and  put  up  the  best  fight  they 
could.  But  the  odds  were  hopelessly  against  them. 
In  five  minutes  it  was  all  over.  Three  of  the  guards 
lay  dead,  one  was  crippled,  and  the  other  two  were 
in  flight.  To  be  sure  two  of  the  smugglers  were 
bowled  over,  dead,  and  two  badly  wounded,  but  the 
remaining  ten  were  not  long  in  repossessing  themselves 
of  their  goods ;  and  when  our  train  pulled  out,  the 
baggage  car  riddled  with  bullets  till  it  looked  like  a 
sieve,  the  ten  were  hurriedly  repacking  their  mules  for 
flight  west  to  the  Sierras.  Later  I  learned  that  early 
that  morning  the  guards  had  caught  the  conducta 
with  only  two  men  in  charge,  who  had  shrewdly 
skipped  and  scattered  to  gather  the  party  that  ar- 
rived just  in  time  to  save  their  plunder. 

Mexican  import  duties  in  those  days  were  so  enor- 
mous that  very  many  of  the  best  people  then  living 
along  the  border  engaged  regularly  in  smuggling,  as 
the  most  profitable  enterprise  offering.  American 
hams,  I  remember,  were  then  sixty  cents  a  pound,  and 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

everything  else  in  proportion.  Even  in  the  city  of 
Monterey,  stores  that  displayed  on  their  open  shelves 
little  but  native  products,  had  warehouses  where  you 
could  buy  (at  three  times  their  value  in  the  States)  al- 
most any  American  or  European  goods  you  wanted. 

Well  recommended  to  General  Trevifio  from  kins- 
men of  his  wife,  who  was  a  daughter  of  General 
Ord  of  our  army,  he  gave  me  a  letter  to  Captain 
Abran  de  la  Garza,  commanding  at  Musquiz,  direct- 
ing him  to  furnish  me  any  cavalry  escort  or  supplies 
I  might  ask  for,  and  the  following  day  we  started 
north  from  Lampasos  on  our  one-hundred-mile  march 
to  Musquiz. 

The  first  two  days  of  the  journey,  for  fully  sixty 
miles,  we  travelled  across  the  lands  of  Don  Patricio 
Milmo,  who  thirty  years  earlier  had  arrived  in  Mon- 
terey, a  bare-handed  Irish  lad,  as  Patrick  Miles. 
Through  thrift,  cunning  trading,  and  a  diplomatic 
marriage  into  one  of  the  most  powerful  families  of 
the  city,  he  had  oreid  his  name  and  gilded  the  pros- 
pects of  his  progeny,  for  he  had  become  the  richest 
merchant  of  Monterey  and  the  largest  land-holder 
of  the  State. 

On  this  march  north  Curly's  value  was  well  dem- 
onstrated. The  first  two  nights  I  divided  our  little 
party  into  four  watches,  so  that  one  man  should 
always  be  awake,  and  on  the  qui  vive.  But  it  took 
us  no  more  than  these  two  nights  to  discover  that 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Curly  was  a  better  guard  than  all  of  us  put  together. 
Throughout  the  noon  and  early  evening  camp  he 
slept,  but  as  soon  as  we  were  in  our  blankets  he  was 
on  the  alert,  and  nothing  could  move  near  the  camp 
that  he  did  not  tell  us  of  it  in  low  growls,  delivered 
at  the  ear  of  one  or  another  of  the  sleepers.  How- 
ever, nothing  happened  on  the  journey  up,  save  at 
the  camp  just  north  of  Progreso,  where  some  of  the 
villagers  tried  to  slip  up  on  our  horses  toward  mid- 
night, and  Curly's  growls  kept  them  off.  Their  trails 
about  our  camp  were  plain  in  the  morning.  The 
evening  of  the  third  day  we  reached  Musquiz,  one  of 
the  oldest  towns  of  the  northern  border,  nestled  at 
the  foot  of  a  tall  sierra  amid  wide  fields  of  sugar  cane, 
irrigated  by  the  clear,  sweet  waters  of  the  Sabinas. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  called  on  Cap- 
tain Abran  de  la  Garza,  the  Comandante,  to  present 
my  letter  from  General  Trevino. 

Like  the  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed,  he  received 
me  in  his  bed-chamber.  As  soon  as  I  entered,  it  be- 
came apparent  the  Captain  was  a  sportsman  as  well 
as  a  soldier. 

The  room  was  perhaps  thirty  by  twenty  feet  in 
size.  Midway  of  the  north  wall  stood  a  rude  writing- 
table  on  which  were  a  few  official  papers.  Ranged 
about  the  room  were  a  dozen  or  more  rawhide-seated 
chairs,  each  standing  stiffly  at  "  attention "  against 
the  wall  in  scrupulously  equidistant  order.  Glaring 
[204] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

at  me  in  crude  lettering  from  a  broad  rafter  facing 
the  door  was  the  grimly  patriotic  sentiment,  "Libertad 
o  Muerte."  (Liberty  or  Death!)  In  the  southwest 
corner  of  the  room  stood  a  low  and  narrow  cot,  be- 
neath whose  thin  scrape  covering  a  tall,  gaunt  cadav- 
erous frame  was  plainly  outlined.  From  the  headpost 
of  the  cot  dangled  a  sword  and  two  pistols.  And  to 
every  bed,  table,  stand,  and  chair  leg  was  hobbled  a 
gamecock  —  a  rarely  high-bred  lot  by  their  looks, 
that  joined  in  saluting  my  entrance  with  a  volley  of 
questioning  crows!  It  was,  I  fancy,  altogether  the 
most  startling  reception  visitor  ever  had. 

In  a  momentary  pause  in  the  crowing,  there  is- 
sued from  a  throat  riven  and  deep-seamed  from  fre- 
quent floodings  with  fiery  torrents  of  mescal,  and  out 
of  lungs  perpetually  surcharged  with  cigarette  smoke, 
a  hoarse,  croaking,  but  friendly  toned,  "Buenos  dias, 
senor.  Sirvase  tomar  un  asiento.  Aqui  tiene  vd  su 
casa!"  and  peering  more  closely  into  the  dusky  cor- 
ner, I  beheld  a  great  face,  lean  to  emaciation,  domi- 
nated by  a  magnificent  Roman  nose,  with  two  great 
dark  eyes  sunk  so  deep  on  either  side  of  its  base  they 
must  forever  remain  strangers  to  one  another.  The 
nose  supported  a  splendid  breadth  of  high  forehead, 
which  was  crowned  with  a  shock  of  coal-black  hair, 
while  the  jaws  were  bearded  to  the  eyes.  It  was  the 
face  of  an  ascetic  Crusader,  sensualized  in  a  measure 
by  years  of  isolated  frontier  service  and  its  attendant 
[205] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

vices  and  degeneration,  but  still  a  face  full  of  the  no- 
ble melancholy  of  a  Quixote. 

Propping  himself  on  a  great  bony  knot  of  an  el- 
bow, the  Captain  made  polite  inquiry  respecting  my 
journey,  and  then  asked  in  what  could  he  serve  me. 
But  when  I  had  explained  that  I  wanted  to  meet  the 
owner  of  the  Santa  Rosa  Ranch,  and  contemplated 
going  out  to  see  it,  it  was  only  to  learn,  to  my  great 
disappointment,  that  it  had  been  sold  the  week  pre- 
vious to  two  Scotchmen.  Fancy !  in  a  country  visited 
by  foreigners,  as  a  rule,  not  so  often  as  once  a  year. 

Nor  was  I  consoled  when,  noting  my  obvious  cha- 
grin, the  Captain  sought  to  lighten  the  blow  by  say- 
ing :  "  But,  my  dear  sir,  this  is  indeed  evidence  God 
is  guarding  you.  That  ranch  has  been  a  legacy  of 
contention  and  feud  for  generations.  Besides,  what 
good  could  you  get  of  it?  Its  nearest  line  to  the 
town  is  six  miles  distant,  and  no  life  or  property 
would  be  safe  there  a  fortnight.  Far  the  best  cattle 
ranch  in  this  section,  a  fourth  of  it  irrigable,  and  as 
fine  sugar-cane  land  as  one  could  find,  do  you  fancy 
it  would  be  tenantless  as  when  God  first  made  it  if  safe 
for  occupancy?  Why,  my  dear  sir,  within  the  last 
six  months  Juan  Galan's  Lipans  have  killed  no  less 
than  seventy  of  our  townsmen,  some  in  their  fields, 
some  in  the  very  suburbs  of  the  town,  while  Mescaleros 
are  raiding  a  little  lower  down  the  river,  and  Nicanor 
Rascon  is  apt  to  sweep  down  any  day  with  his  ban- 
[206] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

didos  and  plunder  strong  boxes  and  stores.  It  is 
with  shame  I  admit  it,  for  I,  Don  Abran,  am  responsi- 
ble for  the  peace  and  safety  of  this  district.  But, 
mil  demonios!  what  can  I  do  with  one  troop  of  cavalry 
against  bandits  ruthless  as  savages,  and  savages  cun- 
ning as  bandits  ? 

"  Oh !  but  if  I  only  had  horses !  Those  devils  take 
remounts  when  they  like  from  the  remoudas  of  ranch- 
eros,  but  I,  car 'a jo /  I  am  always  limited  to  my  troop 
allotment. 

"  Burn  a  hundred  candles  to  the  Virgin,  arwgo  rrtio, 
as  a  thank  offering  for  your  deliverance,  and  wait 
and  see  what  happens  to  the  Scotchmen;  and  while 
waiting,  it  will  be  my  great  pleasure  to  show  you  some 
of  the  grandest  cock-fighting  you  ever  saw.  Look  at 
them!  Beauties,  are  they  not?  Purest  blood  in  all 
Mexico !  Kept  me  poor  four  years  getting  them  to- 
gether !  But  now !  Ah !  now,  it  will  not  be  long  till 
they  win  me  ranches  and  remoudas! 

"Ah!  me.  Time  was  not  so  very  long  ago  when 
Abran  de  la  Garza  was  called  the  most  dashing  jefe 
de  tropa  in  the  service,  when  senoritas  fell  to  him  as 
alamo  leaves  shower  down  to  autumn  winds;  when 
pride  consumed  him,  and  ambition  for  a  Division  was 
burning  in  his  brain.  But  now  this  demon  of  a  fron- 
tier has  scorched  and  driven  him  till  naught  remains 
to  him  but  the  chance  of  an  occasional  fruitless  skir- 
mish, his  thirst  for  mescal,  his  greed  for  aguilas,  and 
[207] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

his  cocks  to  win  them!  But,  senor,  bet  no  money 
against  them,  for  it  would  grieve  me  to  win  from  a 
stranger  introduced  by  my  General-" 

Then,  with  a  grave  nod  of  friendly  warning,  he 
turned  an  affectionate  gaze  upon  his  pets.  Mean- 
time, as  if  conscious  of  his  pride  in  them,  the  cocks 
were  boastfully  crowing  pseans  to  their  own  victories, 
past  and  to  come,  in  shrill  and  ill-timed  but  uninter- 
rupted concert,  bronze  wings  flapping,  crimson  crests 
truculently  tossing  insolent  challenge  for  all  comers. 

With  the  one  plan  of  my  trip  completely  smashed, 
J  felt  too  much  upset  to  continue  the  interview,  and 
excused  myself.  But  after  a  forenoon  spent  alone 
beside  the  broad  and  swift  current  the  Sabinas  was 
pouring  past  me,  gazing  at  the  dim  blue  mountain- 
crests  in  the  west  that  I  had  learned  marked  its 
source,  the  irresistible  call  to  penetrate  the  unknown 
impressed  and  then  possessed  me  so  completely  that,  at 
our  midday  breakfast,  I  announced  to  the  Captain 
I  had  decided  to  follow  the  river  to  its  head,  and  pass 
thence  into  the  desert  for  a  thirty-days'  circle  to  the 
north  and  west. 

"But,  valga  nu  Dios,  man,"  he  objected,  "I  have 
no  force  I  can  spare  for  sufficient  time  to  give  you 
adequate  escort  for  such  a  journey.  It  would  be 
madness  to  undertake  it  with  less  than  fifty  men.  I 
am  responsible  to  my  General  for  your  safety,  and 
cannot  sanction  it.  Beyond  the  Alamo  Canon  the 
[208] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

only  waters  are  in  isolated  springs  in  the  plains  and 
in  natural  rain-fall  tanks  along  the  mountain  crests, 
known  to  none  except  the  Indians  and  Tomas  Alva- 
rez, an  old  half-breed  Kickapoo  long  attached  to  my 
command  as  scout,  who  ranged  that  country  years 
ago  with  his  tribe,  and  who  guides  my  troop  on  such 
short  scouts  as  we  have  been  able  to  make  beyond  the 
Alamo,  and — " 

"Pardon,"  I  ventured  to  interrupt,  "that  will  do 
nicely;  give  me  Alvarez  and  one  good  trustworthy 
soldier,  and  we'll  make  the  circle  without  trouble." 

"  Six  of  you !  Why,  you'd  never  get  twenty  miles 
out  of  town  in  that  direction.  I  can't  permit  it." 

"Pardon  again,  Don  Abran,"  I  broke  in,  "but  we 
have  for  years  been  accustomed  to  move  in  small  par- 
ties through  country  that  held  a  hundred  times  more 
hostiles  than  you  have  here,  and  you  can  trust  us  to 
take  care  of  ourselves.  Go  we  shall  in  any  event, 
without  your  men  if  you  withhold  them." 

"  Well,  well,  hi  jo  mio"  he  responded,  "  if  you  are 
bound  to  go,  we  will  see.  Only  I  shall  write  my  Gen- 
eral that  I  have  sought  to  restrain  you." 

To  us  the  prevailing  local  fears  seemed  absurd. 
Admittedly  there  were  only  sixteen  of  the  Lipans  then 
left,  men,  women,  and  children,  their  chief,  Juan  Ga- 
lan,  the  son  by  a  Lipan  squaw,  of  the  father  of  Garza 
Galan,  then  the  leading  merchant  of  the  town,  and 
later  a  distinguished  Governor  of  his  State.  Orig- 
[209] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

inally  a  powerful  tribe  occupying  both  banks  of  the 
lower  Rio  Grande  to  the  south  of  the  Comanches,  in 
their  wars  with  Texans  and  Mexicans  the  Lipans  had 
dwindled  until  only  this  handful  remained.  Three 
years  earlier  the  entire  band  had  been  captured,  after 
a  desperate  fight,  and  removed  by  the  Mexican  au- 
thorities to  a  small  reservation  five  hundred  miles 
southwest  of  Musquiz.  But  at  the  end  of  two  years, 
as  soon  as  the  guard  over  them  relaxed,  indomitable 
as  Dull  Knife  and  his  Cheyennes  in  their  desperate 
fight  (in  1879)  to  regain  their  northern  highland 
home,  Juan  Galan  and  his  pathetically  small  follow- 
ing jumped  their  reservation  and  dodged  and  fought 
their  way  back  to  the  Musquiz  Mountains ;  and  there 
for  the  last  ten  months,  constantly  harassed  and 
harassing,  they  had  been  fighting  for  the  right  to  die 
among  the  hills  they  loved.  To  the  natives  they 
were  bloodthirsty  wolves,  beasts  to  be  exterminated; 
to  an  impartial  onlooker  they  were  a  heroic  band 
courting  death  in  a  splendid  last  fight  for  fatherland. 
Their  bold  deeds  would  fill  a  book.  Even  in  this 
town  of  fifteen  hundred  people  guarded  by  a  troop  of 
cavalry,  no  one  ventured  out  at  night  except  from 
the  most  pressing  necessity ;  and  of  the  seventy  killed 
by  them  since  their  return,  nearly  a  third  were 
macheted  in  the  streets  of  Musquiz  during  Juan 
Galan's  night  raids  on  the  town. 

The  most  effective  work  against  them  was  done  by 
[210] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

a  band  of  about  a  hundred  Seminole-negro  half- 
breeds,  to  whom  the  Government  had  made  a  grant  of 
four  square  leagues  twenty-five  miles  west  of  Mus- 
quiz,  on  the  Nacimiento.  Come  originally  out  of  the 
Indian  Territory  in  the  United  States,  where  the 
Seminoles  had  cross-bred  with  their  negro  slaves,  this 
same  band  a  few  years  earlier  had  been  most  efficient 
scouts  for  our  own  troops  at  Fort  Clark,  and  other 
border  garrisons,  and  it  was  this  record  that  led  the 
Mexican  Government  to  seek  and  lodge  them  on  the 
Nacimiento,  as  a  buffer  against  the  Lipans. 

That  night  arrangements  for  our  trip  were  con- 
cluded: the  Captain  consented  to  furnish  me  old 
Tomas  Alvarez  and  a  young  soldier  named  Manuel, 
but  only  on  condition  that  he  himself  should  escort 
us,  with  fifty  men  of  his  troop,  one  day's  march  up  the 
river,  which  would  carry  us  beyond  the  recent  range 
of  the  Lipans.  So  early  the  next  morning  we 
marched  out  westward,  passing  the  last  house  a  half- 
mile  outside  the  centre  of  the  town,  along  a  dim,  little- 
travelled  trail  that  followed  the  river  to  the  Seminole 
village  on  the  Nacimiento.  The  day's  journey  was 
without  incident,  other  than  our  amusement  at  what 
seemed  to  us  the  Captain's  overzealous  caution  in 
keeping  scouts  out  ahead  and  to  right  and  left  of  the 
column,  and  in  posting  sentries  about  our  night  camp. 

The  following  morning,  a  Sunday,  after  much  good 
advice,  the  kindly  Captain  bade  us  a  reluctant  fare- 
[211] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

well,  and  led  his  troops  down-river  toward  home,  while 
our  little  party  of  six  headed  westward  up-river. 
Near  noon  we  sighted  the  Seminole  Tillage,  and 
shortly  entered  it,  a  close  cluster  of  low  jacals  built 
of  poles  and  mud.  Odd  it  looked,  as  we  entered,  a 
deserted  village,  no  living  thing  in  sight  but  a  few 
dogs.  Thus  our  surprise  was  all  the  greater  when, 
nearing  the  farther  edge  of  the  village,  our  ears  were 
greeted  with  the  familiar  strains  of  "  Jesus,  Lover  of 
My  Soul,"  issuing  from  a  large  jacal  which  we  soon 
learned  was  the  Seminole  church.  Fancy  it !  the  last 
thing  one  could  have  dreamed  of!  An  honest  old 
Methodist  hymn  sung  in  English  by  several  score  de- 
vout worshippers  in  the  heart  of  Mexico,  on  the  very 
dead  line  between  savagery  and  civilization,  and  at 
that,  sung  by  a  people  all  savage  on  one  side  of  their 
ancestry  and  semi-savage  on  the  other ! 

Before  the  singing  of  the  hymn  was  finished,  star- 
tled by  the  barking  of  their  dogs,  out  of  the  low  door- 
way sprang  half  a  dozen  men,  strapping  big  fellows, 
—  one,  the  chief,  bent  half  double  with  age, —  all  heav- 
ily armed.  The  moment  they  saw  we  were  Ameri- 
cans we  were  most  cordially  received,  and  even  urged 
to  stop  a  few  days  with  them,  and  give  them  news  of 
the  Texas  border.  But  for  this  we  had  no  time ;  and 
after  a  short  visit  —  for  which  the  congregation  ad- 
journed service  —  we  filled  our  canteens,  let  our 
horses  drink  their  fill  at  the  great  Nacimiento  spring 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

that  burst  forth  a  veritable  young  river  from  beneath 
a  low  bluff  beside  the  town,  and  struck  out  westward 
for  Alamo  Canon.  Our  afternoon  march  gave  us 
little  concern,  for  our  route  lay  across  rolling,  lightly 
timbered  uplands  that  offered  little  opportunity  for 
ambush.  That  night  we  made  a  "  dry  camp "  on 
the  divide  .  preferring  to  approach  the  Alamo  in  day- 
light. 

Having  struck  camp  before  dawn  the  next  morn- 
ing, by  noon  we  saw  ahead  of  us  a  great  gorge  divid- 
ing the  mountain  we  were  approaching  —  great  in  its 
height,  but  of  a  scant  fifty  yards  in  breadth,  perpen- 
dicular of  sides,  a  narrow  line  of  brush  and  timber 
creeping  down  along  its  bottom,  but  stopping  just 
short  of  the  open  plains.  Scouting  was  useless.  If 
there  were  any  Indians  about,  we  certainly  had  been 
seen,  and  they  lay  in  ambush  for  us  in  a  place  of  their 
own  choosing.  We  must  have  water,  and  to  get  it 
must  enter  the  canon.  So  straight  into  the  timber 
that  filled  the  mouth  of  the  gorge  we  rode  at  a  run, 
riding  a  few  paces  apart  to  avoid  the  possible  potting 
of  our  little  bunch,  and  a  hundred  yards  within  the 
outer  fringe  of  timber  we  reached  the  water  our  ani- 
mals so  badly  needed. 

And  right  there,  all  about  the  "  sink  "  of  the  Alamo, 

where  the  last  drops   of  the  stream  sank  into  the 

thirsty  sands,  the  bottom  was  covered  thick  with  fresh 

moccasin  tracks,  and  in  a  little  opening  in  the  bush 

[213] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

near  to  the  sink  smouldered  the  embers  of  that  morn- 
ing's camp-fire  of  a  band  of  Lipans.  Apparently 
we  were  in  for  it,  and  seriously  debated  a  retreat. 
Our  position  could  not  be  worse.  Tomas  told  us  that 
the  trail  of  the  Lipans  led  straight  up  the  valley,  and 
for  eight  miles  the  canon  was  never  more  than  three 
hundred  yards  wide,  and  often  no  more  than  fifty, 
with  almost  perpendicular  walls  rising  on  either  side 
two  hundred  or  more  feet  in  height,  so  nearly  perpen- 
dicular that  we  would  for  the  entire  distance  be  in 
range  from  the  bordering  cliff  crests,  while  any  enemy 
there  ambushed  would  be  so  safely  covered  they  could 
follow  our  route  and  pick  us  off  at  their  leisure.  To 
be  sure,  the  brush  along  the  stream  afforded  some 
shelter,  but  no  real  protection.  However,  out  now 
nearly  fifty  miles  from  Musquiz,  and  well  into  the 
country  we  had  come  to  see,  we  pushed  ahead,  Cress, 
Thornton,  and  Manuel  prowling  afoot  through  the 
brush  a  hundred  yards  in  advance,  Crawford,  Tomas 
and  myself  bringing  up  the  rear  with  the  horses. 
And  so  we  advanced  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  when  the 
Lipan  trail  turned  east,  toward  Musquiz,  up  a  crevice 
in  the  cliff  a  goat  would  have  no  easy  time  ascending. 
Thus  we  were  led  to  argue  that  the  Lipans  had  left 
their  camp  before  discovering  our  approach,  and  by 
this  time  were  probably  miles  away  to  the  east. 

Mounting,  therefore,  we  made  the  best  pace  our 
pack  animals  could  stand  up  through  the  eight  miles 
[214] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

of  the  narrows,  riding  well  apart  from  each  other,  the 
only  safeguard  we  could  take,  all  craning  our  necks 
for  view  of  the  cliff  crests  ahead  of  us.  But  no  living 
thing  showed  save  a  few  deer  and  coyotes,  and  two 
mountain  lions  that,  alarmed  by  our  clattering  pace, 
slipped  past  us  back  down  the  gorge.  When  at  last 
we  reached  the  end  of  the  narrows  and  the  canon 
broadened  to  a  width  of  several  hundred  yards,  all 
but  fifty  or  seventy-five  yards  of  the  belt  of  timber 
lining  the  stream  along  the  south  wall  being  compara- 
tively level  grassy  bunch  land,  nearly  devoid  of  cover, 
we  congratulated  ourselves  that  we  had  not  been 
scared  into  a  retreat. 

Keen  to  put  as  much  distance  as  we  could  between 
us  and  the  Lipans,  we  travelled  on  up  the  canon  at  a 
sharp  trot,  keeping  well  to  its  middle,  until  about  five 
p.  m.,  when  we  reached  a  point  where  it  widened  into 
a  broad  bay,  nearly  seven  hundred  yards  from  crest 
to  crest,  with  a  dense  thicket  of  mesquite  trees  near  its 
centre  that  made  fine  shelter  and  an  excellent  point  of 
defence  for  a  night  camp.  The  stream  hugged  the 
east  wall  of  the  canon,  where  it  had  carved  out  a  tor- 
tuous bed  perhaps  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  wide, 
and  so  deep  below  the  bench  we  occupied  that  only 
the  tops  of  tall  cottonwoods  were  visible  from  the 
thicket. 

While  the  rest  of  us  were  busy  unsaddling  and  un- 
packing, Thornton  slung  all  our  canteens  over  his 
[215] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

shoulder,  and  started  for  the  stream.  But  no  sooner 
had  he  disappeared  below  the  edge  of  the  bench,  a 
scant  two  hundred  yards  from  our  camp,  before  a 
rapid  rifle  fire  opened  which,  while  we  knew  it  must 
proceed  from  his  direction,  echoed  back  from  one  cliff 
wall  to  the  other  until  it  appeared  like  an  attack  on 
our  position  from  all  sides,  while  the  echoes  multi- 
plied to  the  volume  of  cannon  fire  at  the  sound  of  each 
shot.  Indeed,  never  have  I  heard  such  thunderous, 
crashing,  ear-splitting  gun-detonations  except  on  one 
other  occasion,  when  aboard  the  British  battle  ship 
Invincible  and  in  her  six-inch  gun  battery  while  a 
salute  was  being  fired. 

Frightened  by  the  fire,  one  of  our  pack  horses 
stampeded  down  the  canon.  Sending  Manuel  in  pur- 
suit, and  leaving  Tomas  at  the  camp,  Crawford, 
Cress,  and  I  ran  for  the  break  of  benchland,  to  reach 
and  aid  Thornton.  Nearing  it,  all  three  dropped 
flat,  and  crawled  to  its  edge,  just  in  time  to  see  George 
make  a  neat  snap  shot  at  a  Lipan  midway  of  a  flying 
leap  over  a  log,  and  drop  him  dead.  Old  George  was 
standing  quietly  on  the  lower  slope  of  the  bench  just 
above  the  timber,  while  the  shots  from  eight  or  ten 
Lipan  rifles  were  raining  all  about  him !  The  Lipans 
lay  in  the  timber  only  one  hundred  to  one  hundred  and 
fifty  yards  away,  and  it  was  a  miracle  they  did  not 
get  him.  Instantly  Cress  and  Crawford  slipped  back 
out  of  range,  made  a  detour  that  brought  them  to 
[216] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

the  bench  edge  within  fifty  yards  of  the  Lipans'  posi- 
tion, and  opened  on  them  a  cross  fire,  while  I  lay 
above  George  and  shelled  away  at  the  smoke  of  their 
discharge,  for  not  one  showed  a  head  after  George 
potted  the  jumper.  Five  minutes  after  Cress  and 
Crawford  opened  on  them,  the  Lipan  fire  ceased 
entirely.  For  an  hour  we  scouted  along  the  bank 
trying  to  locate  them,  but  apparently  they  had  with- 
drawn. 

Then,  while  the  others  covered  us,  George  and  I 
slipped  through  the  bush  to  investigate  his  kill,  and 
found  a  great  gaunt  old  warrior  at  least  sixty  years 
old,  wrinkled  of  face  as  if  he  might  be  a  hundred,  but 
sound  of  teeth  and  coal-black  of  hair  as  a  youth, 
his  face  and  body  scarred  in  nearly  a  score  of  places 
from  bullet  and  machete  wounds, —  the  sign  manual 
writ  indelibly  on  his  war-worn  frame  by  many  a 
doughty  enemy.  We  carried  him  to  the  bench  crest, 
Crawford  fetched  a  spade  and  we  dug  a  grave  and 
buried  him  with  his  weapons  laid  upon  his  breast,  as 
his  own  people  would  have  buried  him,  and  then  we 
fired  across  his  grave  the  final  salute  he  obviously  so 
well  had  earned. 

More  than  he  would  have  done  for  us  ?  Yes,  I  dare 
say.  But  then  our  points  of  view  were  different. 
Throughout  his  long  life  a  terror  to  all  whites  he 
doubtless  had  been;  upon  us  he  was  stealthily  slip- 
ping, ruthless  as  a  tiger;  but  then  he  and  his  tribes- 
[217] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

men  and  lands  had  so  long  been  prey  to  the  greed  of 
white  invaders  of  his  domain  that  it  is  hard  to  blame 
him  for  fighting,  according  to  the  traditions  of  his 
race,  to  the  death. 

Lying  in  camp  within  the  thicket  that  night,  nat- 
urally without  a  fire,  Thornton  made  it  plain  that 
his  voluntary  start  for  water  was  providentially 
timed.  He  told  us  that,  while  descending  the  slope 
to  the  timber,  he  saw  the  head  of  a  little  column  of 
Indians,  stealing  up  the  valley  through  the  brush, 
saw  them  before  they  saw  him;  but  just  as  he  saw 
them,  he  slipped  on  some  pebbles  and  nearly  fell, 
making  a  noise  that  attracted  their  attention.  In- 
stantly they  slid  into  cover,  and  opened  fire  on  him. 

Asked  by  me  why  he  himself  had  not  sought  cover, 
George  answered,  "No  show  to  get  one  except  by 
keeping  out  in  the  open  on  the  high  ground,  and  I 
wanted  one!" 

It  was  plain  the  Lipans  had  sighted  us  when  too 
late  to  lay  an  ambush  for  us  in  the  narrows,  had  made 
a  short  cut  through  the  hills  and  dropped  down  into 
the  stream  bed  with  the  plan  to  attack  us  at  our  night 
camp.  Evidently  they  had  not  expected  us  to  camp 
so  early,  and  were  jogging  easily  along  through  the 
brush,  for  once  off  their  guard.  But  for  George's 
chance  start  for  the  stream,  nothing  but  faithful  old 
Curly's  perpetual  watchfulness  could  have  saved  us 
from  a  bad  mix-up  that  night.  Already  it  had  been 
[218] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

so  well  proved  that  we  could  safely  trust  Curly  to 
guard  us  against  surprise,  we  slept  soundly  through 
the  night,  without  disturbance  of  any  sort. 

The  next  forenoon's  march  to  the  head  waters  of 
the  Alamo  was  an  anxious  one,  and  was  made  with 
the  utmost  caution,  for  we  were  sure  the  Lipans  would 
be  lying  in  wait  for  us ;  but  no  sign  of  them  did  we 
again  see  for  three  weeks. 

Leaving  the  Alamo,  we  made  a  great  circle  through 
the  desert,  swinging  first  north  toward  the  Sierra 
Mojada,  then  south,  and  ultimately  eastward  toward 
Monclova.  The  trip  proved  to  be  one  of  great  hard- 
ship and  danger,  but  only  from  scarcity  of  water; 
for  while  at  isolated  springs  we  found  recent  camps  of 
one  sort  of  desert  prowler  or  another,  we  neither  met 
nor  saw  any.  Finally,  late  one  night  of  the  fourth 
week,  we  reach  a  little  spring  called  Zacate,  out  in 
the  open  plain  only  about  thirty  miles  south  of  Mus- 
quiz.  But  between  us  and  only  five  miles  south  of  the 
town  stretched  a  tall  range  through  which  Tomas  knew 
of  only  two  passes  practicable  for  horsemen:  one,  to 
the  west,  via  the  Alamo,  the  route  we  had  come,  would 
involve  a  journey  of  eighty  miles,  while  by  the  other, 
an  old  Indian  and  smugglers'  trail  crossing  the  summit 
directly  south  of  Musquiz,  we  could  make  the  town 
in  thirty-two  miles.  The  latter  route  Tomas  strongly 
opposed  as  too  dangerous.  Twelve  miles  from  where 
we  lay  it  entered  the  range,  and  for  fifteen  miles  fol- 
[219] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

lowed  terrible  rough  canons  wherein,  every  step  of  the 
way,  we  should  be  right  in  the  heart  of  the  recent 
range  of  the  Lipans,  and  where  every  turn  offered 
chance  of  a  perfect  ambush.  But  with  our  horses 
exhausted,  worn  to  mere  shadows  from  long  marches 
through  country  affording  scant  feed,  with  not  one  left 
that  could  much  more  than  raise  a  trot,  we  finally 
decided  to  chance  the  shorter  route.  That  night  we 
supped  on  cold  antelope  meat  and  biscuits,  to  avoid 
building  a  fire,  and  rolled  up  in  our  blankets,  but  not 
to  rest  long  undisturbed. 

Shortly  after  midnight  Curly  roused  us  with  low 
growls.  Though  the  moon  was  full,  the  night  was 
so  clouded  one  could  hardly  see  the  length  of  a  gun- 
barrel.  Curly's  warnings  continuing,  George  and 
Tomas  rolled  out  of  their  blankets  and  crawled  out 
among  and  about  the  horses,  and  lay  near  them  an 
hour  or  more,  till  Curly's  growls  finally  ceased. 
Then  we  called  them  in  and  all  lay  down,  and  finished 
the  night  in  peace.  Early  the  next  morning,  however, 
a  short  circle  discovered  the  trail  of  three  Indians 
who  had  crept  near  to  the  horses  and  reconnoitred 
our  position.  Their  back  trail  led  due  northeast, 
the  direction  we  had  to  follow;  and  when  we  had 
ridden  out  half  a  mile  from  the  Ojo  Zacate,  we  found 
where  their  trail  joined  that  of  the  main  band.  The 
"  sign  "  showed  they  had  been  south  toward  Monclova 
on  a  successful  horse-stealing  raid,  for  it  was  plain 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

they  had  passed  us  in  the  night  with  a  bunch  of  at 
least  twenty  horses,  heading  toward  a  point  of  the 
range  only  five  or  six  miles  west  of  where  we  should 
be  compelled  to  enter  it. 

We  were  in  about  as  bad  a  hole  as  could  be  con- 
ceived. Plainly  the  Indians  knew  of  our  presence  in 
the  vicinity.  It  was  equally  certain  their  scouts  would 
be  watching  our  every  move  throughout  the  day,  and 
there  was  not  one  chance  in  a  thousand  of  our  cross- 
ing the  range  without  attack  from  some  ambush  of 
such  vantage  as  to  leave  small  ground  for  hope  that 
we  could  survive  it.  All  but  Cress  and  Thornton 
urged  me  to  turn  back,  although  we  were  all  nearly 
afoot,  and  had  no  food  left  except  two  or  three 
pounds  of  flour,  and  a  little  meat.  After  very  short 
deliberation  I  decided  to  go  ahead.  The  Lipans 
knew  precisely  where  we  were,  and  if  they  wanted  us 
they  could  (in  the  event  of  a  retreat)  easily  run  us 
down  and  surround  us  and  hold  us  off  food  and  water 
until  we  were  starved  out  sufficiently  to  charge  their 
position  and  be  shot  down.  Better  far  put  up  a 
bold  bluff  and  take  chances  of  cutting  through  them. 

So  on  we  plodded  slowly  toward  the  hills,  all  of  us 
walking  most  of  the  way  to  save  our  horses  all  we 
could.  At  2  p.  m.  we  cut  the  old  trail  Tomas  was 
heading  us  toward,  and  shortly  thereafter  entered  the 
mouth  of  a  frightfully  rough  canon,  its  bottom  and 
slopes  thickly  covered  with  nopal,  sotol,  and  mesquite, 
[221] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

and,  later,  higher  up,  with  pines,  junipers,  oaks,  and 
spruces,  with  here  and  there  groups  of  great  boul- 
ders that  would  easily  conceal  a  regiment.  Two  or 
three  miles  in,  the  gorge  deepened  until  tall  mountain 
slopes  were  rising  steeply  on  either  side  of  us,  and 
narrowed  until  we  had  to  pick  our  way  over  the  rough 
boulders  of  the  dry  stream-bed. 

Our  advance  was  slow,  for  it  had  to  be  made  with 
the  utmost  caution.  Thornton,  Cress,  and  Tomas 
scouted  afoot,  one  in  the  bottom  of  the  gorge,  and 
one-half  way  up  each  of  its  side  walls,  while  Manuel 
and  Crawford  followed  two  hundred  yards  behind 
them,  also  afoot,  driving  the  saddle  and  pack  horses ; 
and  I  trailed  two  hundred  yards  behind  the  horses, 
watching  for  any  sign  of  an  attempted  surprise  from 
the  rear.  Thus  scattered,  we  gave  them  no  chance 
to  bowl  over  several  of  us  at  the  first  fire  from  any 
ambush  they  might  have  arranged. 

From  the  windings  of  the  canon  we  were  out  of 
sight  of  each  other  much  of  the  time;  personally,  I 
recall  that  afternoon  as  one  of  the  most  lonely  and 
uncomfortable  I  ever  passed.  I  slipped  watchfully 
along,  stopping  often  to  listen,  eyes  sweeping  the  hill- 
sides and  the  gulch  below  me,  searching  every  tree  and 
boulder,  with  no  sound  but  the  soughing  of  the  wind 
through  the  tree-tops,  and  an  occasional  soft  clatter 
of  shingle  beneath  the  slipping  hoofs  of  my  unshod 
horse. 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

But  throughout  the  afternoon  the  only  sign  of 
man  or  beast  that  I  saw  was  a  lot  of  sotol  plants 
recently  uprooted,  and  their  roots  eaten  by  bears. 

Shortly  after  dark  we  reached  the  only  permanent 
water  in  the  canon,  a  clear,  cold,  sweet  spring,  bursting 
out  from  beneath  a  rock,  only  to  sink  immediately  into 
the  arid  sands  of  the  dry  stream-bed.  Immediately 
below  the  spring  and  midway  of  the  gorge  bottom 
stood  an  island-like  uplift,  twenty  yards  in  length  by 
ten  in  width,  covered  with  brush,  leaving  on  either  side 
a  narrow,  rocky  channel,  and  from  either  side  of  these 
two  channels  the  canon  walls,  heavily  timbered,  rose 
very  steeply.  Just  above  these  narrows,  the  gorge 
widened  into  seven  or  eight  acres  of  level,  park-like, 
well-grassed  benchland,  and  into  this  little  park  we 
turned  our  horses  loose  for  the  night,  for  they  were 
too  worn  to  stray. 

Having  made  eight  or  ten  miles  up  the  canon  dur- 
ing the  afternoon  march,  we  were  now  within  a  mile 
of  the  summit,  and  no  more  than  seven  miles  from 
Musquiz.  Indeed  we  should  have  tried  to  reach  the 
town  that  night  had  not  Tomas  told  us  the  next  three 
miles  of  the  trail  were  so  steep  and  rough  he  could 
not  undertake  to  fetch  us  over  it  unless  we  abandoned 
our  animals,  saddles,  and  packs. 

We  turned  into  our  blankets  early,  after  a  cold 
supper,  for  we  did  not  care  to  chance  a  fire.  Cress 
and  I  slept  together  in  the  channel  to  the  west  of  the 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

island ;  Manuel  and  Tomas  to  the  east  of  it,  quite  out 
of  our  sight;  Thornton  and  Crawford  ten  paces 
north,  in  sight  of  both  ourselves  and  the  Mexicans. 
A  little  moonlight  filtered  down  through  the  trees,  but 
not  enough  to  enable  us  to  see  any  distance. 

Scarcely  were  we  asleep,  it  seemed  to  me,  before 
Curly  awakened  Cress  and  myself,  growing  immedi- 
ately at  our  heads.  Rising  in  our  blankets,  guns  in 
hand,  and  listening  intently,  we  could  hear  on  the 
hillside  above  us  what  sounded  like  the  movements  of 
a  bear.  Whatever  it  might  be,  it  was  approaching. 
Not  a  word  had  been  spoken,  and  Curly's  growls  were 
so  low  we  had  no  idea  any  of  the  others  had  been 
roused.  So  we  sat  on  the  alert  for  perhaps  fifteen 
minutes,  when  the  sounds  above  us  began  receding, 
and  we  lay  down  again.  But  just  as  we  were  passing 
back  into  dreamland,  Curly  again  startled  us  with  a 
sharper,  fiercer  note  that  meant  trouble  at  hand. 

As  we  rose  to  a  sitting  posture,  in  the  dim  moon- 
light we  could  plainly  see  a  dark  crouching  figure 
twenty  yards  below,  which  advanced  a  step  or  two, 
stopped  as  if  to  listen,  and  again  advanced  and 
stopped.  What  it  was  we  could  not  make  out.  At 
first  I  thought  it  must  be  a  bear,  but  presently  I  felt 
sure  I  caught  the  glimmer  of  a  gun  barrel,  and 
nudged  Cress  with  my  elbow.  We  were  in  the  act  of 
raising  our  rifles  to  down  it,  whatever  it  might  be, 
when  Thornton  sang  out,  "  Hold  on,  boys ;  that  's  old 
[224] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

Tomas ! "  And,  indeed,  so  it  proved.  All  had  been 
awakened  at  the  first  alarm,  and  Thornton  had  seen 
Tomas  roil  from  his  blankets  into  the  bottom  of  the 
east  channel,  and  crawl  away  on  the  scout  for  the 
cause  of  Curly's  uneasiness  that  so  nearly  had  cost 
him  his  life.  He  had  been  so  intent  for  movement  on 
the  hill  sides  that  he  had  not  noticed  us  watching  him. 

The  next  morning  we  were  moving  by  dawn, 
Tomas,  Cress,  and  myself  in  the  lead,  the  others  trail- 
ing along  one  hundred  or  two  hundred  yards  behind 
us.  For  half  a  mile  the  gorge  widened,  as  most  moun- 
tain gorges  do  near  their  heads,  into  beautiful  grassy 
slopes  rising  steeply  before  us,  thickly  timbered  with 
post  oak.  Then,  issuing  from  the  timber,  we  saw  it 
was  a  blind  canon  we  were  in,  a  cul  de  sac,  with  no 
pass  through  the  crest  of  the  range. 

Before  us  rose  a  very  nearly  perpendicular  wall 
for  probably  six  hundred  feet,  up  which  the  old  trail 
zigzagged,  climbing  from  ledge  to  ledge,  so  steep  that 
when,  later,  we  were  fetching  our  horses  up  it,  one  of 
the  pack  horses  lost  its  balance  and  fell  fifty  feet,  crip- 
pling it  so  badly  we  had  to  kill  it.  The  cliff  face, 
about  three  hundred  yards  in  width,  and  flanked  to 
right  and  left  by  the  walls  of  the  canon,  was  entirely 
bare  of  trees,  but  thickly  strewn  with  boulders.  From 
an  enemy  on  the  top  of  the  two  flanking  walls,  climb- 
ers of  the  cliff  face  could  get  no  shelter  whatever. 
Thus  it  was  important  that  our  advance  should  reach 
[225] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

the  summit  as  quickly  as  possible.  So  up  the  three  of 
us  scrambled,  about  thirty  yards  apart,  disregarding 
the  trail. 

When  we  were  nearly  half-way  up,  and  just  as  we 
had  paused  to  catch  our  breath,  several  rifle  shots 
rang  out  in  quick  succession,  which,  from  some  pecu- 
liar echo  of  the  canon,  sounded  as  if  they  had  been 
fired  beneath  us.  Upon  turning,  we  could  see  noth- 
ing of  our  three  mates  or  the  horses — they  were  hid- 
den from  our  view  by  the  timber.  Fancying  they 
were  attacked  from  the  rear,  I  was  about  to  call  a 
return  to  their  relief,  when  I  saw  Thornton  run  to  the 
near  edge  of  the  timber,  drop  on  one  knee  behind  a 
tree,  and  open  fire  on  the  cliff-crest  directly  above  our 
heads. 

Whirling  and  looking  up,  I  was  just  in  time  to  see 
eight  or  ten  men  bob  up  on  the  crest  and  take  quick 
snap-shots  at  the  three  of  us  in  the  lead,  and  then 
duck  to  cover.  We  were  so  nearly  straight  under 
them,  however,  that  they  overshot  us,  although  they 
were  barely  one  hundred  yards  from  us.  Dropping 
behind  boulders  we  peppered  back  at  the  flashes  of 
their  rifles,  which  was  all  we  three  in  the  lead  there- 
after saw  of  them;  for  after  the  first  volley  most  of 
them  lay  close  and  directed  their  fire  at  the  men  in 
the  edge  of  the  timber,  but  occasionally  a  rifle  was 
tipped  over  the  edge  of  a  boulder  and  fired  at  random 
in  our  direction.  And  all  the  time  they  were  yelling 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

at  us,  "  Que  vienen,  puercos!  Que  vienen!"  (Come 
on,  pigs !  Come  on !) 

I  was  puzzled.  Both  Cress  and  I  thought  they 
were  Mexicans,  but  Tomas  insisted  they  were  Lipans. 
And  true  enough  it  was  the  Lipans  all  spoke  Spanish 
and  dressed  like  Mexican  peons.  Whoever  they 
might  be,  we  could  not  stay  where  we  were.  By  the 
firing  and  voices  there  were  at  least  a  dozen  of  them, 
and  obviously  it  was  only  a  matter  of  moments  before 
they  would  occupy  the  two  flanking  walls  and  have  us 
openly  exposed. 

It  was  a  bad  dilemma.  Retreat  was  impossible, 
down  a  gorge  commanded  at  short  range  from  both 
sides.  If  We  took  shelter  in  it,  they  could  starve  us 
out;  if  we  attempted  to  descend  it,  they  could  easily 
pick  us  off;  if  any  of  us  escaped  back  to  the  plain  it 
would  only  be  to  incur  greater  exposure  if  they  pur- 
sued, or  probably  to  perish  of  hunger  before  we 
could  reach  any  settlements.  Thus  the  situation 
called  for  no  reflection — it  was  charge  and  dislodge 
them,  or  die. 

Yelling  to  the  boys  below  to  close  up  on  us,  we 
three  settled  down  to  the  maintenance  of  the  hottest 
fire  we  could  deliver  at  the  rifle  flashes  above  us,  to 
cover  their  advance.  Luckily  there  were  many  boui- 
ders  scattered  along  the  grassy  treeless  slope  they  had 
to  advance  across  to  reach  the  foot  of  the  cliff.  Thus 
by  darting  from  one  boulder  to  another  they  had  tol- 
[227] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

erable  cover  and  were  able  to  reach  us  with  no  worse 
casualties  than  a  comparatively  slight  flesh  wound 
through  Manuel's  side  and  the  shooting  away  of 
Thornton's  belt  buckle. 

Then  we  started  the  charge,  led  really  by  Thorn- 
ton, who,  active  as  a  goat,  would  have  raced  straight 
into  the  downpour  of  lead  if  I  had  not  continually  re- 
strained him.  Three  would  scramble  up  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet,  and  then  drop  behind  boulders,  while  the 
other  three  kept  up  a  heavy  fire  on  the  summit;  and 
then  the  rear  rank  would  advance  to  a  line  with  their 
position,  while  they  shelled  the  enemy.  All  the  time 
a  rain  of  bullets  was  splashing  on  the  rocks  all  about 
us,  but  luckily  for  us  they  did  not  expose  themselves 
enough  to  deliver  an  accurate  fire. 

After  we  had  made  five  or  six  such  rushes,  and 
were  about  half-way  up,  we  could  hear  the  voices  of 
what  sounded  like  the  larger  part  of  the  band  reced- 
ing. Supposing  they  were  swinging  for  the  two  side 
walls  to  flank  us,  we  doubled  our  speed  and  presently 
dropped  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  wall  of  rock  about 
four  feet  high,  from  behind  which  our  enemy  had 
been  firing. 

Two  or  three  minutes  earlier  their  fire  had  ceased, 
and  what  to  make  of  it  we  did  not  know.  We  found 
that  an  exposure  of  our  hats  on  our  gun-muzzles  drew 
no  fire ;  yet,  driven  by  sheer  desperation,  and  expect- 
ing that  every  man  of  us  would  get  shot  full  of  holes, 
[228] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

we  simultaneously  sprang  over  the  rock,  and  dropped 
flat  on  the  summit — amid  utter  silence,  about  the 
most  happily  surprised  lot  of  men  in  all  Mexico! 
The  enemy  had  decamped.  But  where?  And  with 
what  purpose?  And  why  had  they  not  flanked  us? 

Careful  scouting  soon  showed  they  had  retired  in 
a  body  down  the  trail  we  must  follow  to  reach  Mus- 
quiz,  as  for  nearly  three  miles  the  descent  was  as 
rough  and  difficult  as  the  ascent  had  been. 

Leaving  Cress,  who  was  ill,  and  Manuel,  who  was 
weak  from  loss  of  blood,  to  hold  the  summit,  the  rest 
of  us  descended  to  fetch  up  our  horses,  and  a  hard 
hour's  job  we  had  of  it,  for  we  packed  on  our  backs 
the  load  of  the  dead  pack  horse  and  those  of  his  mates 
the  last  half  of  the  ascent,  rather  than  risk  losing 
another  animal.  Upon  our  return  we  found  Manuel 
gloating  over  three  trophies — a  hat  shot  through 
the  side  by  a  ball  that  had  evidently  "  creased "  the 
wearer's  head,  an  old  Spanish  spur,  and  a  gun  scab- 
bard— which  he  seemed  to  find  salve  for  the  burning 
wound  in  his  side. 

Beneath  us  to  the  north  lay  Musquiz,  in  plain  sight, 
a  scant  six  miles  distant.  In  the  clear  dry  air  of  the 
hills,  it  looked  so  near  that  a  good  running  jump 
might  land  one  in  the  plaza,  and  yet  none  of  us  ex- 
pected we  all  should  enter  it  again.  The  odds  were 
against  it,  for  below  us  lay  three  miles  of  hill  trail 
any  step  down  which  might  land  us  in  a  worse  ambush 
[229] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

than  the  last,  and  we  never  imagined  the  enemy  would 
fail  to  engage  us  again.  But  the  descent  had  to  be 
made,  and  down  it  we  started,  Cress  and  Manuel 
bringing  up  the  rear  with  the  horses,  the  rest  of  us 
scouting  ahead,  dodging  from  rock  to  tree,  advancing 
slowly,  expecting  a  volley,  but  receiving  none. 

For  a  mile  the  band  followed  the  trail,  and  we  fol- 
lowed their  fresh  tracks ;  then  they  left  the  trail  and 
turned  west  through  the  timber.  However,  we  never 
abated  our  watchfulness  until  well  out  of  the  hills  and 
near  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  which  we  reached  shortly 
after  noon.  There,  breakfasting  generously  if  not 
comfortably  with  Don  Abran  and  his  gamecocks,  I 
got  news  that  made  me  less  regretful  of  my  failure  to 
obtain  the  Santa  Rosa  Ranch :  one  of  its  two  Scotch 
purchasers  had  been  killed  two  days  before  my  re- 
turn, in  attempting  to,  repel  a  raid  on  his  camp  by 
Nicanor  Rascon! 

With  Cress  too  ill  to  travel,  the  next  morning  I 
left  Crawford  to  care  for  him,  bade  farewell  to 
good  old  Don  Abran,  and  started  for  Lampasos  with 
Thornton  and  Curly. 

We  nooned  at  Santa  Cruz,  a  big  sheep  ranch  mid- 
way between  Musquiz  and  Progreso,  leaving  there 
about  two  o'clock.  An  hour  later,  we  heard  behind 
us  a  clatter  of  racing  hoofs,  and  presently  were  over- 
taken by  a  hatless  Mexican,  riding  bareback  at  top 
speed,  who  told  us  that  shortly  after  our  departure 
[S30J 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

the  Lipans  had  raided  Santa  Cruz,  and  that  of  its 
twelve  inhabitants,  men,  women,  and  children,  he  was 
the  only  survivor.  Thus  were  the  Lipans  still  levy- 
ing heavy  toll  for  their  wrongs ! 

Toward  evening  we  entered  Progreso,  a  village  re- 
puted among  the  natives  to  be  a  nest  of  thieves  and 
assassins.  While  Thornton  was  away  buying  meat 
and  I  was  rearranging  our  pack,  six  of  the  ugliest- 
looking  Mexicans  I  ever  saw  strolled  across  the  plaza, 
evidently  to  size  up  our  outfit.  Apparently  it  was 
to  their  liking,  for  when,  twenty  minutes  later,  we 
were  riding  into  the  ford  of  the  Rio  Salado  just  south 
of  the  town,  the  six,  all  heavily  armed,  loped  past  us, 
and  when  they  emerged  from  the  ford  openly  and 
impudently  divided,  three  taking  to  the  brush  on  one 
side  of  the  road,  and  three  on  the  other,  riding  forward 
and  flanking  the  trail  we  had  to  follow.  From  then 
till  dark  their  hats  were  almost  constantly  visible,  two 
or  three  hundred  yards  ahead  of  us.  Our  horses  be- 
ing so  jaded,  we  were  sure  they  were  not  the  prize 
sought,  and  it  remained  certain  they  were  after  our 
saddles  and  arms. 

Riding  quietly  on  behind  them  until  it  was  too  dark 
to  see  our  move  or  follow  the  trail,  we  slipped  off  to 
the  westward  of  the  road,  and  camped  in  a  deep  de- 
pression in  the  plain,  where  we  thought  we  could  ven- 
ture a  small  fire  to  cook  our  supper.  But  the  fire 
proved  a  blunder.  Before  the  water  was  faMy  boil- 
[231] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ing  in  the  coffee  pot,  Curly  signalled  trouble,  and  we 
jumped  out  of  the  fire-light  and  dropped  flat  in  the 
bush  just  as  the  six  fired  a  volley  into  the  camp,  one 
of  the  shots  hitting  the  fire  and  filling  our  frying-pan 
with  cinders  and  ashes.  For  an  hour  or  more  they 
sneaked  about  the  camp,  constantly  firing  into  it, 
while  we  lay  close  without  returning  a  single  shot, 
confident  they  would  not  dare  try  to  rush  us  while 
uncertain  of  our  position.  And  so  it  proved,  for  at 
length  Curly 's  warnings  ceased,  and  we  knew  they  had 
withdrawn. 

Waiting  till  midnight,  we  saddled  and  packed  and 
made  a  wide  detour  to  the  west,  striking  the  road 
again  perhaps  four  miles  nearer  Lampasos,  which  we 
reached  safely  late  in  the  next  afternoon,  our  grand 
old  camp-guard,  Curly,  in  better  condition  than 
either  of  us. 

Curiously,  seven  months  later,  in  August,  1883, 
while  on  another  ranch-hunting  trip  in  Mexico,  this 
time  along  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Sierra  Madre  in 
northern  Chihuahua,  at  least  five  hundred  miles  dis- 
tant from  Musquiz,  I  learned  the  solution  of  our  puz- 
zle as  to  whether  our  last  fight  in  Coahuila  was  with 
Lipans  or  Mexicans.  The  manager  of  the  Corrali- 
tos  Ranch,  which  I  was  then  engaged  in  examining, 
was  Adolph  Munzenberger.  The  previous  Winter  he 
had  lived  in  Musquiz,  as  Superintendent  of  the  Cedral 


The  six,  all  heavily  armed,  loped  past  us" 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

Coal  Mines.  While  there,  however,  I  had  not  met 
him  or  his  family. 

One  evening  at  dinner,  Mrs.  Munzenberger  asked 
me,  "Have  you  ever,  perchance,  been  in  Coahuila?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I  spent  several  weeks  in  the 
State  last  winter." 

"  And  how  did  you  like  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  must  say  I  found  rather  too  many  thrills 
there  for  comfort,"  I  replied.  And  when  I  men- 
tioned our  affair  on  the  sierra  south  of  Musquiz,  she 
broke  in  with: 

"Indeed!  And  you  are  the  crazy  gringo  Don 
Abran  tried  to  stop  from  going  into  the  desert !  We 
heard  of  it;  in  fact,  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town,  and 
no  one  expected  you  would  ever  get  back.  And  by 
the  way,  it  was  a  contraband  conducta  owned  by 
friends  of  ours  who  attacked  you  back  of  the  town! 
Droll,  is  it  not?" 

"  Perhaps  —  now,"  I  doubtfully  answered. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Munzenberger  continued,  "  they  were 
on  their  way  to  Monclova.  The  night  before  the  at- 
tack, the  wife  of  the  owner  (one  of  the  leading  mer- 
chants of  the  town)  took  me  to  their  camp  in  the 
brush  near  town  to  see  their  goods ;  and  a  lovely  lot  of 
American  things  they  had." 

"But  why  did  they  attack  us?"  I  queried. 

"Well,  you  see,  it  was  this  way,"  she  explained. 
"The  smugglers  broke  camp  long  before  dawn,  and 
[233] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

started  south  over  the  same  trail  by  which  you  were 
approaching;  they  wanted  to  get  over  the  summit 
before  the  Lipans  or  guards  were  likely  to  be  stirring, 
for  it  was  a  point  at  which  conductas  were  often  at- 
tacked.  But  shortly  after  sunrise,  and  just  as  their 
advance  guard  reached  the  summit,  they  discovered 
your  party  ascending,  and,  mistaking  your  uniformed 
soldiers  for  guardias,  the  leader  lined  a  dozen  of  his 
men  along  the  ridge,  and  opened  on  you,  while  his 
mayordomo  rushed  the  pack  mules  of  the  conducta 
back  down  the  trail  they  had  come.  Early  in  the 
fight  they  discovered  you  were  a  party  of  gringos, 
and  not  guards,  and  decamped  as  soon  as  their  con- 
ducta had  time  to  reach  a  point  where  they  could 
leave  the  trail. 

"  Had  their  goods  not  been  at  stake,  they  would  have 
wiped  you  out,  if  they  could,  for  the  leader's  brother 
got  a  shot  in  the  head  of  which  he  died  the  same  day. 
Indeed,  when  the  two  men  you  left  behind  started  to 
leave  the  country,  he  had  planned  to  follow  and  kill 
them,  but  luckily  Don  Abran  heard  of  it,  and  re- 
strained him." 

And  this  explained  the  mystery  why  they  had  not 
flanked  us ! 

Brave  to  downright  rashness,  George  Thornton 
lasted  only  about  two  years  longer. 

The  Winter  of  1883-84  he  spent  with  me  on  my 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

Pecos  Ranch.     Early  in  the  Spring  he  came  to  me 
and  said: 

"Old  man,  if  you  want  to  do  me  a  favor,  get  me 
an  appointment  as  Deputy  United  States  Marshal  in 
the  Indian  Territory.  I'm  going  to  quit  you,  any- 
way. My  guns  are  getting  rusty.  It 's  too  slow  for 
me  here." 

"Why,  George,"  I  replied,  "if  you  are  bound  to 
die,  why  don't  you  blow  your  brains  out  yourself?" 
—  for  at  the  time  few  new  marshals  in  the  Indian  Ter- 
ritory survived  the  first  year  of  their  appointment. 

"Never  mind  about  me,"  he  answered;  "I'll  take 
care  of  George.  Anyway,  I  'd  rather  get  leaded  there 
than  rust  here." 

So  I  got  him  the  appointment. 

A  few  months  later,  when  the  Territory  was  thrown 
open  to  settlement,  Thornton  homesteaded  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  acres  of  land  which  early  became  a 
town  site,  and  now  is  the  business  centre  of  the  city  of 
Guthrie.  Had  he  lived  and  retained  possession  of  his 
homestead,  it  would  have  made  him  a  millionaire.  But 
greedy  speculators  soon  started  a  contest  of  his  title. 

While  this  contest  was  at  its  height,  one  day  Thorn- 
ton learned  some  Indians  living  a  few  miles  from  the 
town  were  selling  whiskey,  contrary  to  Federal  law. 
As  he  was  mounting  for  the  raid,  having  intended  to 
go  alone,  a  man  he  scarcely  knew  offered  to  accom- 
pany him,  and  Thornton  finally  deputized  him. 
[235] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

The  story  of  his  end  was  told  by  the  Indians  them- 
selves, who  later  were  captured  by  a  large  force  of 
marshals,  and  tried  for  his  murder.  They  said  that 
just  at  dusk  they  saw  two  horsemen  approaching. 
Presently  they  recognized  Marshal  Thornton  and  at 
once  opened  fire  on  him,  eight  of  them,  from  behind 
the  little  grove  of  cottonwoods  in  which  they  were 
camped.  Immediately  Thornton  shifted  his  bridle  to 
his  teeth,  and  charged  them  straight,  firing  with  his 
two  ".41 "  Colts.  The  moment  he  charged,  his  com- 
panion dodged  into  a  clump  of  timber,  where  they 
saw  him  dismount.  On  came  Thornton  straight  into 
their  fire,  shooting  with  deadly  accuracy,  killing  two 
of  their  number,  and  wounding  another  before  he  fell. 

Presently,  at  the  flash  of  a  rifle  from  the  brush 
where  his  companion  had  dismounted,  Thornton 
pitched  from  his  horse  dead.  They  had  done  their 
best  to  kill  him,  they  frankly  swore,  but  it  was  his 
own  deputy's  shot  that  laid  him  low. 

All  the  collateral  circumstantial  evidence  so  fully 
corrobrated  this  that  the  Indians  were  acquitted. 
The  shot  that  killed  him  hit  him  in  the  back  of  the 
head  and  was  of  a  calibre  different  from  that  of  the 
Indians'  guns;  and  his  deputy  never  returned  to 
Guthrie. 

That  it  was  a  murder  prearranged  by  some  of  the 
greedy  contestants  for  his  land,  was  further  proved 

[236] 


ACROSS  THE  BORDER 

by  the  fact  that  every  scrap  of  his  private  papers 
was  found  to  have  disappeared,  and,  through  their 
loss,  his  family  lost  the  homestead. 

Curly's   end  is   another  story.     Happily  he  was 
spared  to  me  some  years. 


[837] 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    THREE-LEGGED    DOE    AND    THE    BLIND    BUCK 

WE  had  just  pulled  the  canoe  out  of  the  water 
and  turned  it  over  after  a  wet  day  in  the 
bush  across  Giant's  Lake,  and  were  drying 
ourselves  before  the  camp-fire,  when  Con  taught  a 
lesson  and  perpetrated  a  confidence.  His  keen, 
shrewd  eyes  twinkling,  and  a  broad  smile  shortening 
his  long,  lean  face  till  its  great  Roman  nose  and 
pointed  chin  were  hobnobbing  sociably  together,  the 
best  hunter  and  guide  on  the  Gatineau  sat  pouring 
boiling  water  through  the  barrel  and  into  the  inner- 
most holy  of  holies  of  the  intricate  lock  mechanism  of 
his  .303  Winchester  —  to  dry  it  out  and  prevent 
rusting  from  the  wetting  it  had  received  in  the  bush. 
"  Sure !  youse  never  heerd  of  it  before  ?  "  he  asked 
in  surprise.  "  Dryin'  a  gun  with  hot  water 's  safest 
way  to  keep  her  from  rustin';  carries  out  all  th'  old 
water  hangin'  round  her  insides  V  makes  her  so 
damned  hot  Mr.  Rust  don't  even  have  time  to  throw 
up  a  lean-to  'n'  get  to  eatin'  of  her  'fore  the  new 
water's  all  gone;  'n'  Mr.  Rust  can't  get  to  eat  none 
'thout  water,  no  more  'n  a  deer  can  stay  out  of  a  salt 
lick,  or  Erne  Moore  can  keep  away  from  the  habitaw 
[238] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

gals,  or  Tit  Moody  can  get  his  own  consent  to  stop 
his  tongue  waggin'  off  tales  'bout  how  women  winks 
down  t'  Tupper  Lake  —  when  he 's  rowin'  'em." 

"Shouldn't  think  such  a  little  water  as  you  have 
used  would  make  the  gun  hot  enough  to  dry  it  out," 
I  suggested. 

"Hot!  Won't  make  her  hot!  Why,  she's  hotter 
now  'n'  billy  Buell  got  last  October  when  that  loony 
habitaw  cook  o'  ourn  made  up  all  our  marmalade  and 
currant  jelly  into  pies  that  looked  'n'  bit  'n'  tasted 
like  wagon  dope  wropt  in  tough  brown  paper;  hot! 
's  hot  this  minute  's  Elise  Lievre's  woman  got  last 
Spring  when  she  heerd  o'  him  a-sittin'  up  t'  a  Otter 
Lake  squaw.  Why,  say!  youse  couldn't  no  more 
keep  a  gun  from  rustin'  in  this  wet  bush  'thout  hot 
water  than  Warry  Hilliams  can  kill  anything  goin' 
faster  than  three-legged  deer. 

"Rust!  Youse  might's  well  try  to  catch  a  habitaw 
goin'  to  a  weddin'  'thout  more  ribbons  on  his  bridle 
'n'  harness  than  his  gal  has  on  her  gown  's  hunt  for 
rust  in  a  hot-watered  gun ! " 

Catching  a  hint  of  a  yarn,  I  asked  if  there  were 
many  three-legged  deer  in  the  bush. 

"W'an't  but  one  ever,  far  's  I  know,"  he  replied. 
"  'N'  almighty  lucky  it  was  for  Warry  that  one  come 
a-limpin'  along  his  way,  for  it  give  him  th'  only  chance 
he  '11  probably  ever  have  to  say  he  got  to  shoot  a  deer. 

"Warry?  Why  he's  jest  the  best  ever  happened 
[239] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

—  't  least  the  best  ever  happened  'round  this  end  o' 

the  bush.  Lives  down  to ;  better  not  tell  you 

right  where  he  lives,  for  I  stirred  up  th'  letters  in 
his  name,  so  'f  any  of  his  friends  heerd  you  tell  th' 
story  they  won't  know  it's  on  him;  fer  he's  jest  that 
good  I'd  rather  hurt  anybody,  'cept  my  woman  or 
bird,  than  hurt  him. 

"Warry?  Why,  with  a  rod  V  line  'n'  reel, 
whether  it's  with  flies,  spoons,  or  minnows,  castin'  or 
trollin',  or  spearin'  or  nettin',  Warry 's  th'  tf#pertest 
fish-catcher  that  ever  waded  the  rapids  or  paddled  th' 
lakes  o'  this  old  Province  o'  Quebec.  But  it 's  gettin' 
a  leetle  hard  for  Warry  late  years  —  fish's  come  to 
know  him  so  well  that  after  he 's  made  a  few  casts  'n' 
hooked  one  or  two  that's  got  away,  they  know  his 
tricks  so  well  they  just  passes  the  word  'round,  'n'  it 's 
'pike'  for  th'  pike,  'beat  it'  for  th'  bass,  'trot' 
for  th'  trout,  'n'  'skip*  for  the  salmon,  until  now, 
after  th'  first  day  or  two,  'bout  all  Warry  can  get  in 
reach  of  's  mud  turtles. 

"'N'd  that's  what  comes  o'  knowin'  too  much  and 
gettin'  too  damned  smart  —  nobody  or  nothin'  left  to 
play  with !  Warry  ?  Why,  say,  if  he  'd  only  knowed 
it  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  Warry  had  th'  chance  to 
live  'n'  die  with  th'  repute  o'  bein'  th'  greatest  sport 
specialist  that  ever  busted  through  the  Quebec  bush  — 
if  he  'd  only  jest  kept  to  fishin'.  But  the  hell  o'  it  is, 
Warry 's  always  had  a  fool  idee  in  his  head  he  can 
[240] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

hunt,  V  he  can't,  can't  sort  o'  begin  to  hunt!  'N' 
darned  if  I  could  ever  quite  figure  out  why,  'n'  him  so 
smart,  'nless  because  he  goes  poundin'  through  the 
bush  like  a  bunch  o'  shantymen  to  their  choppin', 
with  his  head  stuck  in  his  stummick,  studyin'  some 
new  trick  to  play  on  a  trout,  makin'  so  much  noise  th' 
deer  must  nigh  laugh  theirselves  to  death  at  him  a- 
packin'  o'  a  gun. 

"Hunt?  Warry?  Does  he  hunt?  Sure,  every 
year  for  th'  last  thirty  years  to  my  knowledge  —  only 
that's  all;  he  jest  hunts,  never  kills  nothin'.  Least- 
ways he  never  did  till  three  year  ago,  'n'  I  ought  t' 
know,  for  I  always  guides  for  him.  Why,  I  mind  one 
time  he  was  stayin'  over  on  the  Kagama,  he  got  so 
hungry  for  meat  he  up  'n'  chunks  'n'  kills  'n'  cooks 
'n'  eats  a  porcupine,  th'  p'rmiscous  shootin'  o' 
which  is  forbid  by  Quebec  law,  'cause  they  're  so  slow 
a  feller  can  run  'em  down  'n'  get  'em  with  a  stick  or 
stone,  'n'  don't  need  t'  starve  just  'cause  he 's  got  no 
gun. 

"  Three  years  ago  he  'd  been  up  for  the  fly  fishin' 
in  late  June  'n'  trollin'  for  gray  trout  in  September, 
'n'  then  here  he  comes  again  th'  last  week  in  October 
t'  hunt.  'N'  she  was  the  same  old  story :  nothing  do- 
ing! 

"  I  could  set  him  on  th'  best  runways,  'n'  Erne  'n' 
me  could  dog  th'  bush  till  our  tongues  hung  out  'n' 
we  could  hardly  open  our  mouths  'thout  barkin' ; 
[241] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

could  run  deer  past  him  till  it  must  'a  looked  —  if  he'd 
had  a  loose  look  about  him  —  like  a  Gracefield  habit  aw 
weddin'  pr'cession,  'n'  thar  he'd  set  with  his  eyes  fast 
on  th'  end  o'  his  gun,  I  guess,  a-waitin'  for  a  sign  of  a 
bite  'fore  he'd  jerk  her  up  to  try  'n'  get  somethin'. 
'N'  the  queerest  part  was,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it  just 
's  much  's  if  he'd  brought  down  a  three-hundred- 
pound  buck  to  drag  the  wind  out  o'  Erne  'n'  me  at  th' 
end  o'  a  tump-line.  Most  fellers  'd  got  mad  'n'  cussed 
their  luck.  But  not  him  —  kindest,  sweetest-tempered 
man  I  ever  knew.  Guess  he  knowed  we'd  done  our 
best  'n'  had  some  kind  o'  secret  inside  information 
that  he  had  n't. 

"  O'  course,  sometimes  Warry  'd  get  his  gun  off,  but 
by  that  time  th'  deer  had  quit  th'  runway  'n'  was  in 
th'  lake  up  to  their  bellies  pullin'  lily  pads,  or  curled 
up  in  th'  long  grass  o'  a  swale  fast  asleep. 

"But  all  fellers  has  a  day  sometime,  if  they  lives 
Jong  enough  —  though  some  o'  them  seems  t'  have  t' 
get  t'  live  a  almighty  long  time  t'  get  t'  see  it.  At  last 
Warry's  came. 

"  Erne  'n'  me  been  doggin'  a  swamp  where  th'  dead- 
fall tangle  was  so  thick  we  was  so  nigh  stripped  o' 
clothes  we  couldn't  'a  gon?  t'  camp  if  there 'd  been 
any  women  about.  Drivin'  toward  where  a  runway 
crossed  a  neck  'tween  two  lakes,  a  neck  so  narrow  two 
pike  could  scarce  pass  each  other  on  it,  there  we'd 
sot  Warry  't  th'  end  o'  th'  neck.  Jest  'fore  we  got  t' 
[242] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

him  we  heard  a  shot,  'n'  I  remarked  t'  Erne,  'Guess 
th'  old  man  thinks  he 's  got  a  bite.'  'N'  then  we  broke 
through  a  thick  bunch  o'  spruce ;  'n'  we  both  nigh  fell 
dead  to  see  old  Warry  sawin'  at  th'  throat  o'  a  doe, 
tryin'  to  'pear  's  natural  's  if  he  'd  never  done  nothin' 
else  but  kill  'n'  dress  deer.  Mebbe  Erne  'n'  me  wan't 
pleased  none  th'  old  man  had  made  a  kill ! 

"Erne  was  ahead;  'n'  just  as  Warry  rose  up  from 
th'  throat-cuttin',  Erne  dropped  into  th'  weeds  'n' 
rolled  'n'  'round  holdin'  o'  his  stummick,  laughin'  fit 
t'  kill  his  fool  self,  till  I  thought  he'd  gone  crazy. 
Then  my  eye  lit  on  th'  fore  quarters  o'  th'  doe,  'n'  I 
guess  I  thro  wed  more  twists  laughin'  than  Erne  did  — 
for  that  there  doe  was  shy  a  leg,  hadn't  but  three 
legs ;  nigh  fore  leg  gone  midway  'tween  knee  and  dew- 
claw,  shot  off  'n'  healed  up  Godo'mi'ty  knows  when. 

" Warry?  He  didn't  seem  t'  care  none,  too 
darned  glad  t'  get  anythin'  shape  o'  a  deer." 

That  same  evening  one  of  us  asked  Con  if  he  had 
ever  run  across  any  other  mutilated  game,  recovered 
of  old  wounds. 

"Sure!"  he  answered,  "'specially  once  when  I 
was  almighty  glad  to  git  it,  'n'  a  whole  lot  gladder 
still  that  nobody  was  'round  t'  see  'n'  know  'n'  tell 
just  what  I  got  'n'  how  I  got  it.  She  's  been  a  secret 
these  five  year;  stuck  t'  her  tighter  'n'  Erne  Moore 
holds  th'  gals  down  t'  Pickanock  dances,  'n'  that  's 
closer  'n  a  burl  on  a  birch.  Fact  is,  I  never  told  no- 
[243] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

body  'fore  now;  V  I  wouldn't  be  tellin'  it  t'  youse 
now,  only  just  'fore  we  come  up  here  I  got  a  letter 
from  one  o'  th'  two  brothers  we  blindfolded,  say  in' 
his  brother  was  dead  an'  he  goin'  t'  Californy  t'  live, 
'n'  wa'n't  comin'  into  th'  bush  no  more. 

"  If  that  feller  got  hold  o'  her,  my  brother  'n'  me  'd 
have  t'  go  t'  Australia  or  th'  Cape,  for  him  that 's  still 
livin'  's  just  about 's  mean  a  feller's  Warry 's  a  good 
one ;  an'  any  little  repute  we  've  built  up  's  guides  'n' 
hunters,  he  'd  put  in  th9  rest  o'  his  life  tryin'  t'  smash 
's  flat  's  that  fool  habitaw  cook  got  when  Larry 
Adams  sot  on  him  for  cookin'  pa'tridges  as  soup. 
He  'd  just  par'lyze  her  till  we  couldn't  even  get  a  job 
goin'  t'  hunt  'n'  fetch  th'  cows  out  o'  a  ten  acre 
pasture.  'N'  th'  worst  o'  't  is  I  don't  know  that  I  'd 
blame  him  so  almighty  much  for  doin'  it,  for  there 
was  sure  somethin'  comin'  t'  us  for  foolin'  them  I 
don't  believe  we  got  yet. 

"  Th'  two  o'  them  came  up  from  across  th'  line  — 
ain't  goin'  t'  tell  you  what  place  they  come  from  or 
even  th'  State  —  in  late  October,  for  th'  two  weeks 
dog-runnin'  season;  youse  know  there  is  only  two 
weeks  th'  Quebec  law  lets  us  run  hounds,  'thout  a 
heavy  fine.  Never 'd  seen  either  o'  them  before,  but 
friends  o'  theirs  we  'd  been  guidin'  for  gave  brother  'n' 
me  a  big  recommend,  'n'  they  wrote  up  ahead  'n'  hired 
us  t'  put  up  th'  teams  t'  haul  them  'n'  their  traps  in, 
'n'  then  guide  'em. 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

"  Soon  's  they  showed  up  on  th'  depot  platform  at 
Gracefield,  I  knowed  brother  'n'  me  was  up  agin  it 
hard.  Train  must  'a  been  a  half-hour  late  gettin'  to 
Maniwaki  for  th'  time  she  lost  unloadin'  them  two 
fellers'  necessities  for  a  two-weeks'  deer  hunt :  'bout  a 
dozen  gun  cases,  'n'  fishin'  tackle  'nough  for  ten  men, 
'n'  trunks  'n'  boxes  that  took  three  teams  t'  haul  'em 
out  t'  th'  Bertrand  farm.  Fact  is,  them  boxes  held 
enough  ca'tridges  t'  lick  out  another  Kiel  rebellion 
'n'  leave  over  'nough  t'  run  all  th'  deer  'tween  Thirty- 
one  Mile  Lake  'n'  the  Lievre  plumb  north  into  James's 
Bay,  for  if  there's  anythin'  your  average  sportin' 
deer-hunters  can  be  counted  on  for  sure's  death  'n' 
taxes,  it 's  t'  begin  throwin'  lead,  at  th'  rate  o'  about 
ten  pound  apiece  a  day,  the  minute  they  gets  into  th' 
bush,  at  rocks  'n'  trees  'n'  loons  'n'  chipmucks  — 
never  kill  in'  nothin'  but  their  chance  o'  seem'  a  deer. 

"  'N'  these  bloomin'  beauties  o'  our'n  was  no  excep- 
tion. Th'  lead  they  wasted  on  th'  two-mile  portage 
from  th'  Government  road  t'  th'  lake  would  equip  all 
the  Injuns  on  the  Desert  Reservation  for  a  winter's 
hunt. 

"  Why,  when  Tom  'n'  me  got  hold  o'  th'  box  they  'd 
been  takin'  ca'tridges  from  t'  heave  her  into  the  boat, 
she  was  so  light,  compared  t'  th'  others  we'd  been 
handlin',  we  landed  her  plumb  over  th'  boat  in  th' 
water;  'n'  damned  if  she  didn't  nigh  float.  She  was 
the  only  thing  they  had  light  'nough  t'  even  try  t' 
[245] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

float  ('cept  their  own  shootin',  which  sure  wasn't 
heavy  *nough  t'  sink  none,  V  could  'a  fell  out  o'  a 
canoe  'n'  been  picked  up  a  week  later  bumpin'  'round 
with  th'  other  worthless  drift. 

"  Took  us  a  whole  day  to  run  their  stuff  over  t'  th' 
camp,  'n'  it  only  a  mile  across  th'  lake  from  th* 
landin' ;  'n'  when  night  come  we  was  's  near  dead  beat 
's  if  we'd  been  portagin'  a  man's  load  apiece  on  a 
tump-line  —  'n'  that 's  a  tub  o'  pork  'n'  a  sack  'o  flour 
weighin'  two  hundred  and  seventy  five  pounds  —  over 
every  portage  'tween  Pointe  a  Gatineau  'n'  th'  Baska- 
tong. 

"  O'  course  th'  gettin'  them  fellers  over  theirselves 
was  a  easy  diversion,  they  was  that  t'  home  'bout  a 
canoe !  Youse  may  not  believe  it,  but  after  tryin'  a 
half-hour  'n'  findin'  we  couldn't  even  get  them  into 
a  canoe  at  th'  landin'  'thout  upsettin'  or  knockin'  th' 
bottom  outen  her,  we  had  t'  help  them  into  a  thirty- 
foot  *  pointer '  made  t'  carry  a  crew  o'  eight  shanty- 
men  'n'  their  supplies  on  the  spring  drives,  'n'  then 
had  t'  pull  our  damnedest  t'  get  them  across  th'  lake 
'fore  they  upset  her,  jumpin'  'round  't  shoot  at  some- 
thin'  they  couldn't  hit! 

"  'N'  eat !  Well,  they  ate  a  few.  We  was  only  out 
for  two  weeks,  'n'  when  we  loaded  th'  teams  'peared  t' 
me  like  we  had  'nough  feed  for  six  months,  but  after 
th'  first  meal  't  looked  t'  me  we'd  be  down  t'  eatin' 
what  we  could  kill  inside  o'  a  week.  Looked  like  no 
[846] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

human's  stummick  could  hold  all  they  put  in  their 
faces,  V  brother,  he  said  he  thought  their  legs  'a* 
arms  must  be  holler. 

"  'N'  sleep !  When  't  come  t'  wakin'  of  'em  up  tk' 
next  mornin'  they  was  like  a  pair  o'  bears  that  'd 
holed  up  for  th'  winter,  'n'  it  nigh  took  violence  t'  get 
'em  out  at  all.  We  started  in  runnin'  th*  hounds,  'n' 
brother  'n'  me  had  the  best  on  th'  Gatineau  —  Frank 
'n'  Loud,  'n'  old  Blue,  'n'  Spot  —  dogs  that  can  scent 
a  deer  trail  's  far  's  Erne  Moore  can  smell  supper 
cookin',  'n'  that  's  far  from  home  's  Le  Blane 
farm  his  father  used  to  own,  over  Kagama  way,  'bout 
eight  miles  from  Pickanock,  where  he  lives.  We  run 
th'  dogs  for  four  days,  'n'  it  was  discouragin',  most 
discouragin'.  Country  was  full  o'  deer  when  we  was 
last  out,  three  weeks  before,  'n'  th'  dogs  voiced  'n' 
seemed  t'  run  plenty  right  down  to  'n'  past  where  we  'd 
sot  th'  two  on  th'  runways ;  but  they  swore  they  never 
see  nothin',  said  th'  hounds  been  runnin'  on  old  scent, 
sign  made  the  night  before. 

"Then  brother  'n'  me  took  t'  doggin'  too,  makin' 
six  dogs,  'n'  givin'  us  a  chance  t'  see  anythin'  that 
jumped  up  in  th'  bush.  Still  nothin'  came  past  'em, 
they  said,  though  we  saw  many  a  deer  jump  up  out 
o'  th'  swamps  'n'  go  white  flaggin'  theirselves  down 
th'  runways  toward  the  two  '  hunters'. 

"We  just  couldn't  understand  it  'n'  made  up  our 
minds  t'  try  'n'  find  out  why  they  never  got  t'  see  none. 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

"  So  the  sixth  day  I  placed  one  o'  them  myself  on 
a  runway  half  as  wide  'n'  beat  most  's  hard  's  th' 
Government  road,  full  o'  fresh  sign,  picked  a  place 
where  a  big  pine  stump  stood  plumb  in  th'  middle  o' 
th'  runway,  'n'  sot  him  behind  it  where  he  had  a  open 
view  thirty  yards  up  th'  runway  th'  direction  we  'd  be 
doggin'  from. 

"Then  I  let  on  t'  break  through  th'  bush  t'  th' 
swamp  we  was  goin'  t'  dog,  but  'stead  o'  that  I  only 
went  a  little  piece  'n'  left  brother  to  start  th'  hounds 
at  a  time  we  'd  arranged  ahead,  while  I  lay  quiet  be- 
hind a  bunch  o'  balsam  'thin  fifty  yards  o'  my  hunter. 
After  'bout  twenty  minutes,  the  time  I  was  supposed 
t'  need  t'  get  t'  th'  place  t'  start  th'  hounds,  I  heard 
old  Frank  give  tongue  —  must  'a  struck  a  fresh  trail 
th'  minute  he  was  turned  loose.  Then  it  wa'n't  long 
'till  th'  other  three  began  t'  sing,  runin'  'n'  singin'  a 
chorus  that's  jest  th'  swetest  music  on  earth  t'  my 
ears. 

"Talk  about  your  war  'n'  patriotic  songs,  your 
'Rule  Britannias'  'n'  *  Maple  Leaves,'  your  church 
hymns  'n'  love  songs,  'n'  fancy  French  op'ras  like 
they  have  down  t'  Ottawa  that  Warry  Hilliams  took 
me  to  wonst !  Why,  say,  do  youse  think  any  o'  them 
is  in  it  with  a  hound  chorus,  th'  deep  bass  o'  th'  old 
hounds  'n'  th'  shrill  tenor  o'  th'  young  ones  —  risin' 
'n'  swellin'  'n'  ringin'  through  th'  bush  till  every  idle 
echo  loafin'  in  th'  coves  o'  th'  ridges  wakes  up  'n' 
[248] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

joins  in  her  best,  'n'  you  'd  think  all  th'  hounds  in  this 
old  Province  was  runnin'  'n'  chorusin'  'tween  the  Bubs 
'n'  Mud  Bay;  'n'  then  th'  chorus  dyin'  down  softer 
'n'  softer  till  she's  low  'n'  sweet  'n'  sorta  holy- 
soundin',  like  your  own  woman's  voice  chantin'  t'  your 
youngest  —  say,  do  youse  think  there 's  any  music  in 
th'  world  's  good  's  th'  hounds  make  runnin'? 

"Well,  I  sot  there  behind  th'  balsams  till  th'  dogs 
was  drawin'  near,  'n'  then  I  slips  softly  through  th' 
bush  t'  where  I'd  left  Mr.  Hunter;  'n'  how  do 
youse  s'pose  I  found  him,  'n'  it  no  more'n  half  past 
seven  in  th'  mornin'  ?  Youse  never  'd  guess  in  a  thou- 
sand year.  I'll  jest  tump-line  th'  whole  bunch  o* 
youse  't  one  load  from  th'  landin'  't'  th'  Bertrand 
farm  if  that  feller  wa'n't  settin'  with  his  back  t'  th' 
stump,  facin'  up  th'  runway,  his  rifle  'tween  his  knees 
'n'  his  fool  head  lopped  over  on  one  shoulder,  dead 
asleep!  No  wonder  they  never  see  nothin',  was  it? 

"First  I  thought  I'd  wake  him.  Then  I  heard  a 
deer  comin'  jumpin'  down  th'  runway,  'n'  knowin* 
'fore  I  could  get  him  wide  awake  'nough  t'  cock  'n* 
sight  his  gun  th'  deer  'd  be  on  us,  I  slipped  up  behind 
th'  stump  'n'  laid  my  rifle  'cross  its  top,  th'  muzzle  not 
over  a  foot  above  his  noddin'  head.  I  was  no  more  'n 
ready  'fore  here  come  —  a  buck?  No,  I  guess  not, 
'cause  they  was  jest  crazy  for  some  good  buck  heads; 
no,  jest  a  doe,  but  a  good  big  one.  Here  she  come 
boundin'  along,  her  head  half  turned  listening  t'  th* 
[249] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

dogs,  'n'  never  seem'  him,  he  sot  so  still.  When  she 
got  'thin  'bout  fifty  feet  I  fired  'n'  dropped  her  —  'n' 
then  hell  popped  th'  other  side  o'  th'  stump!  Guess 
he  thought  he  was  jumped  by  Injuns.  Slung  his  gun 
one  way  'n'  split  th'  bush  runnin'  th'  other,  leapin' 
deadfalls  'n'  crashin'  through  tangles  so  fast  I  had 
t'  run  him  'bout  fifty  acres  t'  get  t'  cotch  'n'  stop  him. 

"  That  feller  was  with  us  jest  about  ten  days  longer, 
but  he  never  got  time  t'  tell  us  jest  what  he  thought 
was  follerin'  him  or  what  was  goin'  t'  happen  if  he 
got  cotched.  Likely  's  not  he  'd  been  runnin'  yet  if  I 
hadn't  collared  him. 

"  O'  course  they  was  glad  at  last  t'  get  some  veni- 
son—  leastways  youse'd  think  so  t'  see  them  stuffin' 
theirselves  with  it  —  but  they  never  let  up  a  minute 
round  camp  roastin'  brother  'n'  me  for  not  runnin' 
them  a  buck ;  swore  that  we  had  n't  run  'em  any  was 
proved  by  my  gettin'  nothin'  but  th'  doe. 

"Finally,  they  up  'n'  wants  a  still-hunt!  Them 
still-hunt,  that  we  could  scarce  get  along  the  broadest 
runway  'thout  makin'  noises  a  deer'd  hear  half  a 
mile!  Still-hunt!  Still-hunt,  after  we'd  been  run- 
nin' the  hounds  for  a  week  and  they  'd  shot  off  'bout 
a  thousand  rounds  o'  ca'tridges  round  camp  'n' 
comin'  back  from  doggin',  till  there  wa'n't  a  deer 
within  eight  miles  o'  th'  lake  that  wa'n't  upon  his 
hind  legs  listenin'  where  th'  next  bunch  o'  trouble  was 
comin'  from.  But  still-hunt  it  was  for  our'n,  'n'  at 
[  250  ] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

it  we  went  for  th'  next  two  days.  Don't  believe  we  'd 
even  'a  started,  though,  if  we  had  n't  known  two  days 
at  th'  most'd  cure  them  o'  still-huntin'.  Gettin'  out 
'fore  sun-up,  with  every  log  in  th'  brules  frosted  slip- 
pery 's  ice,  'n'  every  bunch  o'  brush  a  pitfall,  climbin' 
'n'  slidin',  jumpin'  'n'  balancing  any  'n'  every  kind 
o'  leg  motion  'cept  plain  honest  walkin',  was  several 
sizes  too  big  a  order  for  them.  So  th'  second  mornin' 
out  settled  their  still-huntin'. 

"  Then  they  wanted  brother  'n'  me  t'  still-hunt  — 
while  they  laid  round  camp,  I  guess,  'n'  boozed,  th' 
way  they  smelled  'n'  talked  nights  when  we  got  in. 

"  'N'  still-hunt  we  did,  plumb  faithful,  'n'  hard  's 
ever  in  our  lives  when  we  was  in  bad  need  o'  th'  meat, 
for  several  days;  'n'  would  youse  believe  it?  We 
never  got  a  single  shot.  Sometimes  we  saw  a  white 
flag  for  a  second  hangin'  on  top  o'  a  bunch  o'  berry 
bushes  —  that  was  all;  most  o'  th'  deer  scared  out  o' 
th'  country,  'n'  th'  rest  wilder  'n'  Erne  gets  when 
another  feller  dances  with  his  best  gal. 

"Well,  we  just  had  t'  give  up  V  own  up  beat. 
'N'  Goda'mi'ty !  but  did  n't  them  two  cheap  imitation 
hunters  tell  us  what  they  thought  o'  us  pr'f essionals  — 
said  'bout  everything  anybody  could  think  of,  'cept 
cuss  us.  'N'  there  was  no  doubt  in  our  minds  they 
wanted  to  do  that.  If  they  'd  been  plumb  strangers, 
'stead  o'  friends  o'  one  o'  our  parties,  it's  more'n 
likely  brother  'n'  me'd  wore  out  a  pair  o'  saplings 
[251] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

over  their  fool  heads,  'n'  paddled  off  'n'  left  them  t' 
tump-line  theirselves  out  o'  th'  bush.  But  I  told 
brother  't  was  only  a  day  or  two  more,  'n'  we  'd  chew 
our  own  cheeks  'stead  o'  their  ears. 

"The  last  day  we  had  in  camp  they  asked  us  t' 
make  one  more  try  with  th'  hounds.  We  took  th'  two 
ridges  north  o'  th'  shanty  deer-lick  'n'  drove  west, 
with  them  on  a  runway  sure  to  get  a  deer  if  there  was 
any  left  t'  start  runnin'.  Scarcely  ten  minutes  after 
we  loosed  th'  hounds  I  heard  them  stopped  'n'  bayin', 
over  on  th'  slope  o'  th'  ridge  brother  was  on,  bayin' 
in  a  way  made  me  just  dead  sure  they  had  a  bear. 

"Now  a  bear-kill,  right  then  t'  go  home  'n'  lie 
about,  tellin'  how  they  fit  with  it,  would  'a  suited  our 
sham  hunters  better  'n'  a  whole  passle  o'  antlers ;  so 
I  busted  through  th'  bush  fast  as  I  could,  fallin'  'n' 
rippin'  my  clothes  nigh  off  —  only  t'  find  our  hounds 
snappin'  'n'  bayin'  round  a  mighty  big  buck,  that 
when  I  first  sighted  him,  seemed  to  be  jest  standin' 
still  watchin'  th'  hounds.  Never  saw  a  deer  act  that 
way  before,  'n'  him  not  wounded,  'n'  nobody 'd  shot. 
Jest  couldn't  figure  't  out  at  all.  But  I  was  so  keen 
t'  get  them  fellers  a  bunch  o'  horns  I  didn't  stop  t' 
study  long  what  p'rsonal  private  reasons  that  buck 
had  for  stoppin'  'n'  facin'  th'  hounds. 

"  I  was  in  the  act  o'  throwin'  my  .303  t'  my  face, 
when  brother  hollered  not  t'  shoot,  'n5 1*  come  over  t' 
him.  'N'  by  cripes!  while  I  was  crossin'  over  t' 
[852] 


THE  DOE  AND  THE  BUCK 

brother,  what  in  th'  name  o'  all  th'  old  hunters  that 
ever  drawed  a  sight  do  youse  think  I  noted  about  that 
buck?  Darned  if  that  buck  wa'n't  blind — stone 
blind  —  blind  's  a  bat! 

"  Poor  old  warrior !  He  'd  stand  with  his  head  on 
one  side  listenin'  t'  th'  hounds  till  he  had  one  located 
close  up,  V  then  he  'd  rear  V  plunge  at  th'  hound  \ 
'n'  if  there  happened  t'  be  a  tree  or  dead  timber  in  his 
way,  he'd  smash  into  it,  sometimes  knockin'  himself 
a'most  stiff.  But  when  all  was  clear  th'  hounds  stood 
no  show  agin  him,  blind  as  he  was.  Old  Loud  'n' 
Frank,  that  naturally  put  up  a  better  fight  than  th' 
young  dogs,  he  tore  up  with  his  front  hoofs  so  bad 
they  like  t'  died. 

"Run  th'  buck  knowed  he  couldn't,  'n'  there  he 
stood  at  bay  t'  fight  to  a  finish  'n'  sell  out  dear  's  he 
could.  If  it  had  n't  been  a  real  kindness  t'  kill  him, 
I'd  never  'a  shot  that  brave  old  buck,  'n'  left  our 
hunters  t'  buy  any  horns  they  had  t'  have  down  t' 
Ottawa.  But  he  was  already  pore  'n'  thin  's  deer 
come  out  in  March,  'n'  if  we  let  him  go  'd  be  sure  t' 
starve  or  be  ate  by  th'  wolves.  So  I  put  a  .303  be- 
hind his  shoulder,  'n'  brother  'n'  me  ran  up  'n' 
chunked  th'  dogs  off. 

"'N'  what  do  youse  think  we  found  had  blinded 
that  buck?  Been  lately  in  a  terrible  fight  with  an- 
other buck.  His  head  'n'  neck  'n'  shoulders  was 
covered  with  half-healed  wounds  where  he'd  been 
[253] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

gashed  'n'  tore  by  th'  other's  horns  'n'  hoofs;  V 
somehow  in  the  fight  both  his  eyes  'd  got  put  out ! 
Guess  when  he  lost  his  eyes  th'  other  buck  must  'a 
been  'bout  dead  himself,  or  it'd  'a  killed  him  'fore 
quittin'. 

"  Then  it  hit  brother  'n'  me  all  of  a  heap  that  ye  'd 
be  up  agin  it  jest  a  leetle  bit  too  hard  t'  stand  if  we 
hauled  a  blind  buck  into  camp;  fellers 'd  swear  that 
t'  get  t'  kill  a  buck  at  all  brother  'n'  me  had  t'  range 
th'  bush  till  we  struck  a  blind  one;  'n'  then  they'd 
probably  want  us  t'  go  out  'n'  see  if  we  could  n't  find 
some  sick  or  crippled  'nough  so  we  could  get  to  shoot 
'em. 

"Brother  was  for  leavin'  him  'n'  sayin'  nothin'; 
but  th'  old  feller  had  a  grand  pair  o'  horns  it  seemed 
a  pity  t'  lose,  'n'  so  I  just  drove  a  .303  sideways 
through  his  eyes ;  'n'  when  we  got  t'  camp  we  'counted 
for  th'  two  shots  in  him  by  tellin'  them  he  was  circlin' 
back  past  us  'n'  we  both  fired  t'  wonst. 

"  'N'  by  cripes !  t'  this  day  nobody  but  youse  knows 
that  Con  Teeples  dogged  'n'  still-hunted  th'  bush  for 
two  weeks  for  horns  'thout  killin'  nothin'  but  a  blind 
buck." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  LEMON   COUNTY  HUNT 

ONE  crisp  winter  morning  a  party  of  us  left 
New  York  to  spend  the  week  end  at  the 
Lemon  County  Hunt  Club.     It  was  there  I 
first  met  Sol,  the  dean  of  Lemon  County  hunters  and 
for  eight  seasons  the  winner,  against  all  comers,  of 
the  famous  annual  Lemon  County  Steeple  Chase.    At 
the  hurdles,  whether  in  the  great  public  set  events  or 
in  private  contests,  Sol  was  never  beaten,  while  in  the 
drag  hunts  it  was  seldom  indeed  he  was  not  close  up 
on  the  hounds  from  "  throw-in  "  to  "  worry." 

To  the  Club  Mews  he  had  come  under  the  tragic 
name  of  Avenger,  but  such  was  the  marvellous  equine 
wisdom  he  displayed  that  at  the  finish  of  his  third  hunt 
in  Lemon  County,  he  was  rechristened  Solomon  by 
his  new  owner  —  soon  shortened  to  Sol  for  tighter  fit 
among  sulphurous  hunt  expletives.  At  that  night's 
dinner  Sol  and  his  deeds  were  the  chief  topic  of  con- 
versation and  also  its  principal  toast.  And  why  not, 
when  no  hunting  stable  in  the  world  holds  a  horse  in 
all  respects  his  equal?  Why  not  toast  a  horse  now 
twenty-six  years  old  who  has  missed  no  run  of  the 
Lemon  County  hounds  for  the  last  eight  years,  never 
[255] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

for  a  single  hunting-day  off  his  feed  or  legs?  Why 
not  toast  a  horse  that  takes  ordinary  timber  in  his 
stride  and  eats  up  the  stiffest  stone  walls  for  eight 
full  hunting  seasons  without  a  single  fall?  Why  not 
toast  a  horse  with  the  prescience  and  generalship  of 
a  Napoleon,  a  horse  who  drives  straight  at  all  obsta- 
cles in  a  fair  field,  but  who  never  imperils  his  rider's 
head  beneath  overhanging  boughs ;  who  foresees  and 
evades  the  "blind  ditches"  and  other  perils  lurking 
behind  hedges  and  walls,  and  who  lands  as  steady  and 
safe  on  ice  as  he  takes  off  out  of  muck?  Why  not 
toast  this  venerable  but  still  indomitable  King  of 
Hunters  ? 

The  next  morning  it  was  my  privilege  to  meet  him. 
In  midwinter,  he  of  course  was  not  in  condition.  De- 
scriptions of  his  weird  physique,  and  jests  over  his 
grotesquely  large  and  ill-shaped  head,  made  by  half 
a  dozen  voluble  huntsmen  over  post-prandial  bottles, 
I  thought  had  prepared  me  against  surprise.  Cer- 
tainly they  had  described  such  a  horse  as  I  had  never 
seen. 

But  having  come  to  the  door  of  his  box,  I  was 
astounded  to  see  slouching  lazily  in  a  corner  with 
eyes  closed,  the  nigh  hip  dropped  low,  a  horse  that  at 
first  glance  appeared  to  be  Don  Quixote's  Rosinante 
reincarnate,  a  gigantic  "crowbait"  with  a  head  as 
long  and  coarse  as  an  eighteen-hand  mule's,  an  under 
lip  pendulous  as  a  camel's  dropping  ears  nearly  long 
[256] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

enough  to  brush  flies  off  his  nostrils,  with  such  an 
ingrowing  concavity  of  under  jaw  and  convexity  of 
face  as  would  have  enabled  his  head  to  supply  the 
third  of  a  nine-foot  circle,  a  face  curved  as  a  scimitar 
and  nearly  as  sharp.  Both  in  shape  and  dimensions 
it  was  the  grossest  possible  caricature  of  a  Roman- 
nosed  equine  head  the  maddest  fancy  could  conceive. 

Slapped  lightly  on  the  quarter,  Sol  was  instantly 
transformed. 

Eyes  out  of  which  shone  wisdom  preternatural  in 
a  horse,  opened  and  looked  down  upon  us  with  the 
calm  questioning  reproach  one  might  expect  from  a 
rude  awakening  of  the  Sphinx;  then  the  tall  ears 
straightened  and  the  great  bulk  rose  to  the  full 
majesty  of  its  seventeen  hands;  and  while  slats,  hip 
bones,  and  shoulder  blades  were  distressingly  promi- 
nent, a  glance  got  the  full  story  of  Sol's  wonderful 
deeds  and  matchless  record  for  safe,  sure  work. 

With  massive,  low-sloping  shoulders,  tremendous 
quarters,  exceptionally  short  of  cannon  bone  and 
long  from  hock  to  stifle  as  a  greyhound;  with  a 
breadth  of  chest  and  a  depth  of  barrel  beneath  the 
withers  that  indicated  most  unusual  lung  capacity, 
behind  the  throat-latch  Sol  showed,  in  extraordinary 
perfection,  all  the  best  points  of  a  thoroughbred 
hunter  that  make  for  speed,  jumping  ability,  and 
endurance. 

And  as  he  so  stood,  a  flea-bitten,  speckled  white  in 

[257] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

color,  he  looked  like  a  section  out  of  the  main  snowy 
range  of  the  Rocky  Mountains :  the  two  wide-set  ears 
representing  the  Spanish  Peaks ;  his  sloping  neck 
their  northern  declivity;  his  high  withers,  sharply 
outlined  vertebrae,  and  towering  quarters  the  serrated 
range  crest;  his  banged  tail  a  glacier  reaching  down 
toward  its  moraine! 

Sol  needed  exercise,  and  that  afternoon  I  was  per- 
mitted the  privilege  of  riding  him.  Mounted  from 
a  chair  and  settled  in  the  saddle,  I  felt  as  if  I  must 
surely  be  bestriding  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral.  But  at 
a  shake  of  the  reins  the  parallel  ceased.  His  pas- 
terns were  supple  as  an  Arab  four-year-old's,  his 
muscles  steel  springs. 

Myself  quite  as  gray  as  Sol  and,  relatively,  of 
about  the  same  age,  as  lives  of  men  and  horses  go,  we 
early  fell  into  a  mutual  sympathy  that  soon  ripened 
into  a  fast  friendship.  At  Christmas  I  returned  to 
the  Club  to  spend  holiday  week,  in  fact  sought  the 
invitation  to  be  with  Sol.  Every  day  we  went  out 
together,  Sol  and  I,  morning  and  afternoon.  Bright, 
warm,  open  winter  days,  so  soon  as  the  spin  he  loved 
was  finished,  I  slid  off  him,  slipped  the  bit  from  his 
mouth  (leaving  head-stall  hanging  about  his  neck), 
and  left  him  free  to  nibble  the  juicy  green  grasses  of 
some  woodland  glade  and,  between  nibble  times,  to 
spin  me  yarns  of  his  experiences.  For  the  subtle  sym- 
pathy that  existed  between  us  —  sprung  of  our  trust 
[258] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

in  one  another,  and  sublimated  in  the  heat  of  our 
mutual  affection  —  had  sharpened  our  perceptions 
until  intellectual  inter-communication  became  possible 
to  us.  I  know  Sol  understood  all  I  told  him,  and  I 
don't  think  I  misunderstood  much  he  told  me.  So 
here  is  his  tale,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall  it. 

"  Ye  know  I  'm  Irish,  and  proud  of  it.  It 's  there 
they  knew  best  how  to  make  and  condition  an  able 
hunter.  No  pamperin',  softenin'  idleness  in  box 
stalls  or  fat  pastures,  or  light  road-joggin',  goes  in 
Ireland  between  huntin'  seasons.  It's  muscle  and 
wind  we  need  at  our  trade  in  Ireland,  and  neither  can 
be  more  than  half  diviloped  in  the  few  weeks'  light 
conditionin'  work  that  all  English  and  most  American 
cross-country  riders  give  their  hunters.  Steady 
gruellin'  work  is  what  it  takes  to  toughen  sinews  and 
expand  lungs,  and  it 's  the  Irish  huntsman  that  knows 
it.  So  between  seasons  we  drag  the  ploughs  and  pull 
the  wains,  toil  a!  the  rudest  farm  tasks,  and  thus  are 
kept  in  condition  on  a  day's  notice  to  make  the  run 
or  take  the  jump  of  our  lives. 

"  Humiliatin'  ?  Hardly,  when  we  find  it  gives  us 
strength  and  staying  power  to  lead  the  best  the  shires 
can  send  against  us :  they  've  neither  power  nor  stom- 
ach to  take  Irish  stone  and  timber. 

" '  It 's  a  royal  line  of  blood,  his,'  I  've  often  heard 
Sir  Patrick  say;  'a  clean  strain  of  the  best  for  a 
hundred  years,  by  records  of  me  own  family.  His 
[259] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

i 

head?  There  was  never  a  freak  in  the  line  till  he 
came;  and  where  the  divil  and  by  what  misbegotten 
luck  he  came  by  it  is  the  mystery  of  Roscommon. 
And  it 's  by  that  same  token  we  call  him  Avenger,  for 
no  sneerin'  stranger  ever  hunted  with  him  that  did  n't 
get  the  divil's  own  peltin'  with  clods  off  his  handy 
Irish  heels.' 

"And  the  head  groom  had  it  from  the  butler  and 
passed  it  on  to  me  that  the  old  Master  of  the  Roscom- 
mon Hounds  was  ever  swearin'  over  his  third  bottle, 
of  hunt  nights,  when  I  was  no  more  than  a  five-year- 
old  and  the  youngsters  would  be  fleerin'  at  Sir  Pat 
over  the  shape  of  me  head: 

"  *  Faith,  an'  it 's  Avenger's  head  ye  don't  like,  lads, 
is  it?  By  the  powers  o'  the  Holy  Virgin  but  it's  me 
pity  ye  have  that  none  of  ye  can  show  the  likes  m 
your  stables.  By  the  gray  mare  that  broke  King 
Charlie's  neck,  it's  the  head  of  him  holds  brains 
enough  to  distinguish  ten  average  hunters,  brains  no 
ordinary  brain  pan  could  hold ;  an'  it 's  a  brain-box 
shape  of  a  shot  sock  makin'  the  disfigurin'  hump  be- 
low his  eyes.  It 's  a  four-legged  gineral  is  Avenger, 
with  the  cunnin'  foresight  of  a  Bonaparte  and  the 
cool  judgment  of  a  Wellington.* 

"Ah!  but  they  were  happy  days  on  the  old  sod, 

buckin'   timber,   flyin'   over  brooks,   stretchin'   over 

stone  or  lightin'  light  as  bird  atop  of  walls  too  broad 

to  carry  and  springin'  on,  with  a  good  light-handed 

[260] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

man  up  that  knew  his  work  and  left  ye  free  to  do 
yours !  And  a  sad  night  it  was  for  me  when  Sir  Pat, 
stripped  by  years  of  gambling  of  all  he  owned  but 
the  clothes  he  stood  in  and  me,  staked  and  lost  me  to 
a  hunt  visitor  from  Quebec ! 

"  I  was  a  youngster  then,  only  a  nine-year-old,  but 
I  '11  niver  forget  the  two  weeks'  run  from  Queenstown 
to  Quebec  whereon  hunting  tables  were  reversed  and  I 
became  the  rider  and  the  ship  me  mount,  across  coun- 
try the  roughest  hunter  ever  lived  through:  niver  a 
moment  of  easy  flat  goin',  but  an  endless  series  of 
gigantic  leaps  that  nigh  jouted  me  teeth  loose,  churned 
me  insides  till  they  wouldn't  even  hold  dry  feed,  and 
gave  me  more  of  a  taste  than  I  liked  of  what  I  had 
been  givin'  Roscommon  huntsmen  over  lane  side  wall 
jumps  —  a  rise  and  a  jolt,  a  rise  and  a  jolt,  till  it 
was  wonderin'  I  was  the  ears  were  not  shaken  from 
me  head. 

"Humiliation?  It  was  there  at  Quebec  I  got  it! 
In  old  Roscommon  usually  it  was  lords  and  ladies 
rode  me  of  hunt  days,  men  and  women  bred  to  the 
game  as  I  meself  was. 

"But  at  Quebec,  the  best — and  I  had  the  best — 
were  beefy  members  of  their  dinkey  Colonial  Govern- 
ment or  fussy,  timid  barristers  I  had  to  carry  on  me 
mouth.  Seldom  it  was  I  carried  a  good  pair  of  hands 
and  a  cool  head  in  me  nine  years'  runnin'  with  the 
Quebec  and  Montreal  hounds.  And  lucky  the  same 
[261] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

was  for  me,  for  it  forced  me  to  take  the  bit  in  me 
teeth,  rely  on  meself,  and  regard  me  rider  no  more 
than  if  he  were  a  sack  of  flour:  I  jist  had  it  to  do  to 
save  me  own  legs  and  me  rider's  neck,  for  to  run  by 
their  reinin'  and  pullin'  would  have  brought  us  a 
cropper  at  about  two  out  of  every  three  obstacles. 
Faith,  and  I  believe  it 's  an  honest  leaper's  luck  I  've 
always  had  with  me,  anyway,  for  me  Quebec  work 
was  jist  what  I  needed  to  train  me  for  an  honorable 
finish  with  the  Lemon  County  Yankees. 

uOne  Autumn  night  years  ago,  when  I  was  eigh- 
teen, a  clever  young  Yankee  visitor  from  New  York 
appeared  at  our  club.  For  two  days  I  watched  his 
work  on  other  mounts,  and  liked  it.  He  was  good 
as  any  two-legged  product  of  the  old  sod.  itself,  a 
handsome  youngster  a  bit  heavier  than  Sir  Pat,  a 
reckless,  deep  drinkin',  hard  swearin',  straight  ridin' 
sort,  but  with  a  head  and  hands  ye  knew  in  a  minute 
ye  could  trust,  by  name  Jack  Lounsend.  The  third 
hunt  after  his  arrival,  it  was  me  delight  to  carry 
him,  and  for  the  first  time  in  years  to  allow  me  rider 
his  will  of  me.  And  you  can  bet  your  stud  and  gear, 
I  gave  him  the  best  I  had,  for  the  sheer  love  of  him, 
and  him  so  near  the  likes  of  me  dear  Sir  Pat. 

"Nor  was  me  work  to  go  unvalued,  for,  to  me 
great  delight,  he  bought  me  and  brought  me  to  the 
States  —  straight  away  to  Lemon  County  —  along 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

with  two  of  me  huntmates  he  fancied.  And  a  sweet 
country  I  found  this  same  Lemon  County,  with  tim- 
ber and  stone  nigh  as  stiff,  and  sod  as  sound  as  old 
Roscommon's  own. 

"But  troubles  lay  ahead  of  me  I'd  not  foreseen. 
Instead  of  goin'  into  Jack's  private  string,  as  I'd 
hoped,  the  early  record  I  made  for  close  finishes  and 
safe,  sure  work  made  me  wanted  by  the  chief  patron 
of  the  hunt,  a  New  York  multi-railroad-aire  with  a 
well  diviloped  habit  of  gettin'  everything  he  goes  after. 
So,  while  I  venture  to  believe  Jack  hated  to  part  with 
me,  the  patron  got  me. 

"And  a  good  man  up  the  patron  himself  proved, 
one  I'd  always  be  proud  enough  to  carry;  but,  as 
Jack  used  to  say,  the  hell  of  it  was  the  Lemon  County 
Hunt  numbered  more  bunglin'  duffers  than  straight 
riders,  the  sort  a  youngster  or  a  hot-head  would  be 
sure  to  kill. 

"  So  when,  as  often  happened,  the  patron  was  busy 
with  faster  runs  and  a  hotter  "worry"  than  our 
hunt  afforded,  it  frequently  fell  to  me  lot  to  carry  the 
half-broke  of  all  ages,  seldom  a  one  bridle-wise  to  our 
game,  as  sure  to  pull  me  at  the  take-off  of  a  leap  as 
to  give  me  me  head  on  a  run  through  heavy  mud,  the 
sort  no  horse  could  carry  and  finish  dacently  with  ex- 
cept by  takin'  the  bit  in  his  teeth  and  himself  makin* 
the  runnin'.  And  even  so,  it  was  a  tough  task  fightm* 

1 263 1 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

their  rotten  heavy  hands  and  loose  seat!  But,  by 
the  glory  of  old  Roscommon,  never  once  have  I  been 
down  in  me  eight  years  with  the  Lemons ! 

"  Once,  to  be  sure,  on  me  first  run,  by  the  way,  I 
slashed  into  one  of  your  brutal  wire  fences,  the  first 
I  'd  ever  seen  —  looked  a  filmy  thing  you  could  smash 
right  through  —  caught  a  shoe  in  it,  and  nigh 
wrenched  a  shoulder  blade  in  two.  Sure,  I  never  lost 
me  feet,  but  it  laid  me  up  a  few  days;  and  you  can 
gamble  any  odds  you  like  no  wire  has  ever  caught  me 
since ;  and,  more,  that  I  now  hold  record  as  the  only 
horse  in  the  County  that  takes  wire  as  readily  as  tim- 
ber, where  it's  necessary  —  though  sure  it  is  I  '11  dodge 
for  timber  every  time  where  I  won't  lose  too  much  in 
place. 

"Down  they  come  to  Lemon  County,  a  lot  of 
those  New  York  beauties,  men  and  women,  togged  out 
so  properly  you  *d  think  they  'd  spent  their  whole  lives 
in  the  huntin'  field ;  but  at  the  first  obstacle  you  'd  see 
their  faces  go  white  as  their  stocks,  and  then  all  over 
you  they  'd  ride  from  tail  to  ears,  their  arms  sawin'  at 
your  mouth  fit  to  rip  your  under  jaw  off,  like  they 
thought  it  was  a  backin'  contest  they  were  entered  for. 
And  sure  back  to  the  rear  it  soon  was  for  them,  back 
till  the  hounds  were  mere  glintin'  specks  flyin'  across 
a  distant  hill-crest,  the  riders'  red  coats  noddin'  pop- 
pies ;  back  till  only  faint  echoes  reached  them  of  the 
swellin',  quaverin'  chorus  of  the  madly  racin'  pack; 
[264] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

back  for  all  but  him  or  her  whom  old  Sol  had  his  will 
of,  —  for  rider  never  lived  could  hold  me  to  the  wrong 
jump  or  throw  me  from  my  stride,  nor  was  fence  ever 
built  I  'd  not  find  a  place  to  leap  without  layin'  a  toe 
on  it. 

"  Once  the  hounds  give  voice,  it 's  the  divil  himself 
could  n't  hold  me,  whether  it 's  the  short,  sharp  war- 
cry  of  the  Irish  or  the  sweet,  deep  bell-notes  of  these 
Yankee  hounds  that  to  me  ever  seem  chantin'  a  mourn- 
ful dirge  for  the  quarry.  Sure,  it's  the  faster  Irish 
hounds  that  make  the  grandest  runnin',  but  it's  the 
deep-throated,  mellow  chorus  of  a  Yankee  pack  I  love 
best  to  hear. 

"  Nouveaux  riches,  whatever  kind  of  bounders  that 
spells,  is  what  Bob  Berry  calls  the  lot  of  mouth-sawers 
New  York  sends  us ;  and  whenever  the  patron  is  out 
or  Jack  has  his  way,  it 's  niver  one  of  them  I  'm  dis- 
graced with. 

"  Sometimes  it 's  me  good  old  Jack  up ;  sometimes 
hard  swearin',  straight  goin'  Bob;  sometimes  little 
Raven,  as  true  a  pair  of  hands  and  light  and  tight  a 
seat  as  hunter  ever  had;  sometimes  Lory  Ling,  as 
reckless  as  the  old  Roscommon  sire  of  him  I  used  to 
carry  when  I  was  a  five-year-old,  with  a  ring  in  his 
swears,  a  stab  in  his  heels,  and  a  cut  in  his  crop  that 
can  lift  a  dead-beat  one  over  as  tall  gates  as  the  best 
and  freshest  can  take ;  sometimes  it's  Priest,  that  with 
the  language  of  him  and  the  hell-at-a-split  pace  he  '11 
[265] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

hold  a  tired  one  to  but  ill  desarves  the  holy  name  he 
wears ;  and  sometimes  —  my  happiest  times  —  it 's  a 
daughter  of  the  patron  up,  with  hands  like  velvet  and 
the  nerve  and  seat  of  a  veteran. 

"  Horse  or  human,  it 's  blood  that  tells  every  time, 
me  word  for  that.  Be  they  old  or  young,  you  can 
niver  mistake  it.  Can't  stop  anything  with  good 
blood  in  it  —  gallops  straight,  takes  timber  in  its 
stride,  and  finishes  smartly  every  time.  Know  it  may 
not,  but  it  balks  at  nothing,  sets  its  teeth  and  drives 
ahead  till  it  learns. 

"  And  perhaps  that  was  n't  driven  well  home  on  me 
last  Fall! 

"Out  to  us  came  a  little  woman,  a  scant  ninety- 
pounder  I  should  say,  so  frail  she  would  n't  look  safe 
in  a  drag,  and  a  good  bit  away  on  the  off  side  of  mid- 
dle age;  but  the  mouth  of  her  had  a  set  that  showed 
she  'd  never  run  off  the  bit  in  her  life,  and  her  eye  — 
my  eye !  but  she  had  an  eye,  did  that  woman.  And  it 
was  hell-bent  to  hunt  she  was,  bound  to  follow  the 
hounds,  though  all  she  knew  of  a  saddle  came  of  five- 
mile-an-hour  jogs  along  town  park  bridle  paths,  and 
all  her  hands  looked  fit  for  was  holdin'  a  spaniel. 

"Well,  it  was  Lory  and  Priest  took  her  on,  turn 
about,  usually  me  that  carried  her,  and  it  was  break 
her  slender  little  neck  I  thought  the  divils  would  in 
spite  of  me.  Took  her  at  everything  and  spared  her 
nowhere,  bowled  her  along  across  meadow  and  furrow, 
[266] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

over  water,  timber,  and  walls,  like  she  was  a  lusty  five- 
year-old,  and  all  the  time  a  guyin'  her  in  a  way  to  take 
the  heart  out  of  anything  but  a  thoroughbred.  "Don't 
mind  the  fence ! "  Lory  would  sing  out,  *  if  you  get  a 
fall,  just  throw  your  legs  in  the  air  and  keep  kickin' 
to  show  you  're  not  dead ;  we  never  want  to  stop  for 
any  but  the  dead  on  this  hunt.'  And  smash  on  my 
quarters  would  come  her  crop,  and  on  we  'd  go ! 

"  Again,  when  we  'd  be  nearin'  a  fence  across  which 
two  were  scramblin'  up  from  croppers,  Lory  would 
brace  her  with:  'Don't  git  scared  at  that  smoke 
across  the  fence;  it's  nothin'  but  the  boys  that 
couldn't  get  over  burnin'  up  their  chance  of  salva- 
tion!' And  into  me  slats  her  little  heel  would  sock 
the  steel,  and  high  over  the  timber  I'd  lift  her  for 
sheer  joy  of  the  nerve  of  her! 

"But  it  was  not  always  me  that  had  her.  One 
day  I  saw  a  cold-blood  give  her  a  fall  you'd  think 
would  smash  the  tiny  little  thing  into  bran ;  landed  so 
low  on  a  ditch  bank  he  couldn't  gather,  and  up  over 
his  head  she  flew  and  on  till  I  thought  she  was  for 
takin'  the  next  wall  by  her  lonesome.  And  when 
finally  she  hit  the  ground  it  was  to  so  near  bury  her- 
self among  soft  furrows  that  it  looked  for  a  second 
as  if  she'd  taken  earth  like  any  other  wily  old  fox 
tired  of  the  runnin'. 

"  But  tired  ?  She  ?  Not  on  your  bran  mash !  Up 
she  springs  like  a  yearlin'  and  asks  Lory  is  her  hat 
[267] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

on  straight  —  which  it  was,  straight  up  and  down  over 
her  nigh  ear.  'Oh,  damn  your  hat,'  answers  Lory; 
6  give  us  your  foot  for  a  mount  if  your  're  not  rattled. 
Why,  next  year  you  '11  be  showin'  your  friends  holes 
in  the  ground  on  this  hunt  course  you've  dug  with 
your  own  head!'  And  up  it  was  for  her  and  away 
again  on  old  cold-blood.  Faith,  but  those  cold-bloods 
make  it  a  shame  they're  ever  called  hunters.  Fall 
the  best  must,  one  day  or  another;  but  while  the 
thoroughbred  goes  down  fightin',  strugglin'  for  his 
feet  and  ginerally  either  winnin'  out  or  givin'  his  rider 
time  to  fall  free  if  down  he  must  go,  the  cold-blood 
falls  loose  and  flabby  as  an  empty  sack,  and  he  and 
his  rider  hit  the  ground  like  the  divil  had  kicked  them 
off  Durham  Terrace.  Ah,  but  it  was  the  heart  of  a 
true  thoroughbred  had  Mrs.  Bruner,  and  whether  up 
on  cold  or  hot  blood,  along  she'd  drive  at  anything 
those  two  hare-brained  dare-devils  would  point  her  at, 
spur  diggin',  crop  splashin' ! 

"  Nor  is  all  our  fun  of  hunt  days.  Between  times 
the  lads  are  always  larkin'  and  puttin'  up  games  on 
each  other  out  of  the  stock  of  divilment  that  won't 
keep  till  the  next  run,  each  never  quite  so  happy  as 
when  he  can  git  the  best  of  a  mate  on  a  trade  or  a 
wager. 

"One  day  little  Raven  and  I  galloped  over  to 
Lory's  place. 

" '  Whatever  mischief  are  you  and  His  Wisdom  up 
[268] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

to?'  sings  out  Lory  to  Raven,  the  minute  we  stopped 
at  his  porch. 

"'Nary  a  mischief,'  answers  Raven;  'want  some 
help  of  you.' 

" '  Give  it  a  name,'  says  Lory. 

" '  Easy,'  says  Raven ;  '  the  master's  got  a  new  fad 
—  crazy  to  mount  the  hunt  on  white  horses.  I've 
old  Sol  here,  and  Jack  has  a  pair  of  handy  white  ones 
for  the  two  whips,  but  where  to  get  a  white  mount 
for  Jack  stumps  us.  Jogged  over  to  see  if  you  could 
help  us  out.' 

"  Lory  was  lollin'  in  an  easy-chair,  lookin'  out  west 
across  his  spring  lot.  Directly  I  saw  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  and  f ollowin'  the  line  of  his  glance,  there  slouchin' 
in  a  fence  corner  I  saw  Lory's  old  white  work-mare, 
Molly.  Sometimes  Molly  pulled  the  buggy  and  the 
little  Lings,  but  usually  it  was  a  plough  or  a  mower 
for  hers.  I  'd  heard  Lory  say  she  was  eighteen  years 
old  and  that  once  she  was  gray,  but  now  she  *a  white 
as  a  first  snow-fall. 

"'How  would  old  gray  Molly  do,  Raven?'  pres- 
ently asks  Lory. 

"'Do?     Has  she  ever  hunted?'  asks  Raven. 

" '  Divil  a  hunt  of  anything  but  a  chance  for  a  rest,' 
says  Lory ; '  never  had  a  saddle  on,  as  far  as  I  know, 
but  she  has  the  quarters  and  low  sloping  shoulders  of 
a  born  jumper,  and  it's  you  must  admit  it.  Let's 
have  a  look  at  her.' 

[269] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

"  So  out  across  the  spring  lot  the  three  of  us  went, 
to  the  corner  where  Molly  was  dozin.'  And  true  for 
Lory  it  was,  the  old  lady  had  fine  points ;  when  lightly 
slapped  with  Raven's  crop  she  showed  spirit  and  a 
good  bit  of  action. 

"  *  She 's  sure  got  a  good  strain  in  her,'  says  Raven ; 
'  where  did  you  get  her,  Lory  ? ' 

" '  Had  her  twelve  years,'  says  Lory ;  *  brought  her 
on  from  my  Wyoming  ranch;  she  and  a  skullful  of 
experience  and  a  heartful  of  disappointment  made  up 
about  all  two  bad  winters  left  of  my  ranch  invest- 
ments. The  freight  on  her  made  her  look  more  like 
a  back-set  than  an  asset,  but  she  was  a  link  of  the 
old  life  I  could  n't  leave.' 

"  *  Well,  give  her  a  try  out,'  laughs  Raven,  '  and  if 
she'll  run  a  bit  and  jump,  we  may  have  some  fun 
passin'  her  up  to  Jack.' 

"  So  Lory  takes  her  to  the  stable,  has  her  saddled 
and  mounts,  and  I  hope  never  to  have  another  rub- 
down  if  she  did  n't  gallop  off  like  she'd  never  done 
anything  else  —  stiff  in  the  pasterns  and  hittin'  the 
ground  fit  to  bust  herself  wide  open,  but  poundin' 
along  a  fair  pace.  Then  we  went  into  a  narrow  lane 
and  I  gave  her  a  lead  over  some  low  bars,  and  here 
came  game  old  Molly  stretchin'  over  after  me  like 
fences  and  her  were  old  stable-mates. 

"  *  Well,  I  will  be  damned,'  says  Raven ;  *  she 's  a 
hoary  wonder.  Give  her  a  week  of  handlin'  and  trim 
[270] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

her  up,  and  it'll  be  Jack  for  mother  at  a  stiff  price ; 
he's  so  bent  on  his  fad,  he'll  take  a  chance  on  her  age.' 

"And  then  it  was  clinkin'  glasses  and  roarin' 
laughter  in  the  house  with  them,  while  I  began  tippin' 
Molly  a  few  useful  points  at  the  game  as  soon  as  the 
groom  left  us  in  adjoinin'  stalls. 

"  Four  days  later  Lory  brought  Molly  over  to  the 
hunt-club  mews,  and  if  I  'd  not  been  on  to  their  mis- 
chievous plot,  I  '11  be  fired  if  I  'd  known  her.  It  was 
a  cunnin'  one,  was  Lory,  and  he'd  banged  her  tail, 
hogged  her  mane,  clipped  her  pasterns,  polished  her 
hoofs,  groomed,  fed  up,  and  conditioned  her,  and  (I 
do  believe)  polished  her  yellow  old  fangs,  till  she 
looked  as  fit  a  filly  as  you'd  want  to  see. 

"And  soon  after,  when  Molly  was  unsaddled  and 
stalled,  into  an  empty  box  alongside  of  me  slips  Lory 
with  Tom,  the  best  whip  and  seat  of  our  hunt,  and 
says  Lory:  'You  never  seem  to  mind  riskin'  your 
neck,  Tom.' 

"'Thank  ye  kindly,  sir,'  says  Tom;  'hall  in  the 
day's  work.' 

" '  Well,  if  you  '11  give  the  old  gray  mare  a  week's 
practice  at  wall  and  timber,  gettin'  out  early  when 
none  but  the  sun  and  the  pair  of  you  are  yet  up,  1 11 
give  you  the  little  rifle  you  lovin'ly  handled  at  my 
place  the  other  day.  But  mind,  it's  your  neck  she 
may  break  at  the  first  wall,  for  I  Ve  niver  taken  her 
over  anything  much  higher  than  a  pig  sty.' 
[271] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

"'Right-o,  sir,'  says  Tom;  'an'  there's  any  jump 
in  the  old  girl,  I  '11  git  it  out  of  'er.' 

"The  next  Saturday  afternoon,  the  biggest  meet 
of  the  season,  up  rides  that  divil  of  a  Lory  on  Molly, 
him  in  a  brand-new  suit  of  ridin'  togs  and  her  heavy- 
curbed  and  martingaled  like  she  was  a  wild  four-year- 
old,  the  pair  lookin'  so  fine  I  scarce  knew  the  man  or 
Raven  the  mare. 

"'Hi,  there,  Lory!'  says  Raven;  'wherever  did 
you  get  the  corkin'  white  un  ? ' 

"  *  Sh-h-h !  you  damn  fool,'  says  Lory. 

"  *  The  hell  you  say ! '  whispers  Raven,  reins  aside, 
chucklin'  low  to  the  two  of  us,  and  with  a  knee-press 
which  I  knew  meant,  'Sol,  jist  you  watch  'em!' 

"And  we  were  no  more  than  turned  about  when 
up  rides  the  master,  Jack,  both  ears  pointin'  Molly, 
and  says: 

"'Good-looker  you  have  there,  Lory.  New  pur- 
chase ? ' 

"'No,  indeed,'  says  Lory;  'old  hunter  I've  had 
some  years;  brought  her  on  from  the  West;  just  up 
off  grass  and  not  quite  prime  yet ;  guess  she'll  finish, 
though.' 

"Think  of  it — the  nerve  of  the  divil  —  and  him 
knowin'  she  was  more  likely  to  finish  at  the  first  fence 
than  ever  to  reach  the  check.  For  the  day's  course 
was  a  full  ten-mile  run,  and  a  check  was  laid  half  way 
for  a  blow  or  a  change  of  mounts. 
[272] 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

"  Presently  the  hounds  opened  at  the  '  throw-in,'  an 
Irish  pack  it  takes  near  a  steeplechase  pace  to  stay 
with,  and  we  were  off  on  as  stiff  a  course  as  even 
Lemon  County  can  show.  And  a  holy  miracle  was 
Lory's  ridin'  that  day.  For  nigh  four  miles  he  held 
tight  behind  two  duffers  who,  while  up  on  top-notch- 
ers,  pulled  their  mounts  so  heavily  that  they  took  a 
top  rail  off  nearly  every  fence  they  rose  to  and 
swerved  for  low  wall-gaps,  till  he'd  got  Molly's  nerve 
up  a  bit.  Then,  takin'  a  chance  on  the  last  mile,  Lory 
threw  crop  and  spur  into  her  and  raced  straight 
ahead,  liftin'  her  over  wall  and  timber  to  try  the  best, 
until  close  up  on  Jack.  Just  then  Jack  turned  and 
watched  them,  just  as  they  were  approachin'  a  heavy 
four- foot  jump,  a  broad  stone  wall  and  ditch.  Sure, 
I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  Lory,  but  at  it  he  hurled 
her,  and  I'll  be  curbed  if  she  did  n't  take  it  as  cleverly 
as  I  could. 

"Old  Molly  finished  third  at  the  check,  but  at 
the  expense  of  a  pair  of  badly  torn  and  bleedin'  knees, 
got  scrapin'  over  stone  and  wood,  which  that  rascal 
of  a  Lory  hid  by  swervin'  to  a  white  clay  bank  and 
plasterin'  her  wounds  with  the  clay,  and  then  she  was 
led  away  by  his  groom. 

"  Joggin'  back  from  the  '  worry '  that  evenin',  Jack 
lay  tight  in  Lory's  flank  till  Lory  had  consented,  ap- 
parently with  great  reluctance,  to  sell  him  Molly  for 
five  hundred  dollars. 

[273] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

"The  very  next  week,  Jack,  Raven,  and  the  two 
whips  turned  out  on  white  hunters,  Jack  of  course 
upon  Molly  and  happy  over  the  successful  workin' 
out  of  his  fad.  But  good  old  Jack's  happiness  was 
short-lived,  for  after  the  'throw-in'  he  was  not  seen 
again  of  the  hunt  that  day.  The  first  fence  Molly 
negotiated  in  fine  style,  but  at  the  second  she  came 
a  terrible  cropper  that  badly  jolted  Jack  and 
knocked  every  last  ounce  of  heart  out  of  her,  cowed 
her  so  completely  that  she  'd  be  in  that  same  meadow 
yet  if  there'd  not  been  a  pair  of  bars  to  lead  her 
through,  and  divil  a  man  was  ever  found  could  make 
her  try  another  jump. 

"  Great  was  the  quiet  fun  of  Lory  and  Raven, 
though  Lory's  lasted  little  longer  than  Jack's  joy  of 
his  white  mount.  Of  course  Jack  was  too  game  to  let 
on  he  knew  he'd  been  done,  but  not  too  busy  to 
sharpen  a  rowel  for  Lory. 

"  And  the  rankest  wonder  it  was  Lory  niver  saw  it 
till  Jack  had  him  raked  from  flank  to  shoulder  — 
jjust  stood  and  took  it  without  a  blink,  like  a  donkey 
takes  a  lash. 

"  Within  a  week  of  Molly's  downfall  Lory  was  out 
on  me  one  day,  when  up  rides  Jack  and  says : 

"' There's  a  splendid  hunter  in  me  stable  I  want 
ye  to  have,  Lory.  Got  more  than  I  can  keep,  and 
your  stable  must  be  a  bit  shy  since  you  parted  with 
the  white  mare.  He's  the  ba  seventeen-hander  in  the 


THE  LEMON  COUNTY  HUNT 

Irish  lot.  Stands  me  over  a  thousand,  but  you  can 
have  him  at  your  own  price ;  don't  want  the  hardest, 
straightest  rider  of  the  hunt  shy  of  fit  meat  and  bone 
to  carry  him.' 

"Belikes  it  was  the  blarney  caught  him,  but  any- 
way Lory  buried  his  muzzle  in  Jack's  pail  till  he 
could  see  nothin'  but  what  Jack  said  it  held,  and  took 
the  bay  at  six  hundred  dollars  just  on  a  casual  look- 
over. 

"  It  was  a  good  action,  a  grand  jumpin'  form,  and 
rare  pace  the  bay  showed  on  a  short  try-out  that  af- 
ternoon, so  much  so  I  overheard  Lory  tellin'  himself, 
when  he  was  after  dismountin'  just  outside  me  box: 
'Gad!  but  ain't  old  Jack  easy  money!' 

"But  when  Lory  and  the  bay  showed  up  at  the 
next  day's  meet,  I  noticed  the  bay's  ears  lay  in'  back 
or  workin'  in  a  way  to  tell  any  but  a  blind  one  it  was 
dirty  mischief  he  was  plannin'.  Nor  was  he  long 
playin'  it.  For  about  a  third  of  the  run  the  bay  raced 
like  a  steeplechaser  tight  on  the  heels  of  the  hounds, 
leadin'  even  the  master,  for  Lory  could  no  more  hold 
him  than  his  own  glee  at  the  grand  way  they  were 
takin'  gates  and  walls.  But  suddenly  that  bay  divil's- 
spawn  swerves  from  the  course,  dashes  up  and  stops 
bang  broadside  against  a  barn ;  and  there,  with  ears 
laid  back  tight  to  his  head  and  muzzle  half  upturned, 
for  four  mortal  hours  the  bay  held  Lory's  off  leg 
jammed  so  tight  against  the  barn  that,  rowel  and 
[  275  ] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

crop-cut  hard  as  he  might,  the  only  thing  Lory  was 
able  to  free  was  such  a  flow  of  language,  it  was  a  holy 
wonder  Providence  did  n't  fire  the  barn  and  burn  up 
the  pair  of  them. 

"And  as  Jack  passed  them  I  heard  the  divil  sing 
out :  *  Ha !  Ha !  Lory !  'it  was  the  gray  mare  wanted  to 
jump  but  could  n't,  and  it  's  the  bay  can  jump  but 
won't!  It's  an  "oh  hell!"  for  you  and  a  "ha!  ha!" 
for  me  this  time ! ' 

"Which,  while  they're  still  fast  friends,  was  the 
last  word  ever  passed  between  them  on  the  subject  of 
the  funker  and  the  balker. 


CHAPTER  XII 

EL    TIGRE 

A  CAT  may  look  at  a  king,  but  the  son  of  a 
village  lawyer  may  not  venture  to  bare  his 
heart  to  the  daughter  of  the  Duque  de  la 
Torrevieja.  And  yet  a  man  of  our  blood  was  enno- 
bled early  in  the  wars  with  the  Moors,  while  the 
Duke's  forebears  were  still  simple  men-at-arms, 
knighted  under  a  name  that  in  itself  carries  the  ring 
of  the  heroic  deeds  that  earned  it." 

The  speaker,  Mauro  de  la  Lucha-sangre  (literally 
"Mauro  of  the  Bloody  Battle"),  stood  one  June 
morning  of  1874  beneath  the  shade  of  a  gnarled  olive- 
tree  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadaira  River,  rebelliously 
stamping  a  heel  into  the  soft  turf.  Son  of  the  fore- 
most lawyer  of  his  native  town  of  Utrera,  educated 
in  Sevilla  at  the  best  university  of  his  province, 
already  at  twenty-four  himself  a  fully  accredited 
licenciado,  Mauro's  future  held  actually  brilliant 
prospects  for  a  man  of  the  station  into  which  he  was 
born.  And  yet,  most  envied  of  his  classmates  though 
he  was,  to  Mauro  himself  the  future  loomed  black, 
forbidding,  cheerless. 

Mauro's  father,  by  legacy  from  his  father,  was  the 
[277] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

attorney  and  counsellor  of  the  Duque  de  la  Torre- 
vieja;  and  so  might  Mauro  have  been  for  the  next 
Duke  had  there  not  cropped  out  in  him  the  daring, 
the  love  of  adventure,  the  pride,  and  the  confidence 
that  had  lifted  the  first  Lucha-sangre  above  his  fel- 
lows. It  was  a  case  of  breeding  back  —  away  back 
over  and  past  generations  of  fawning  commoners  to 
the  times  when  Lucha-sangre  swords  were  splitting 
Moorish  casques  and  winning  guerdons. 

Nor  in  spirit  alone  was  Mauro  bred  back.  He  was 
deep  of  chest,  broad  of  shoulder,  lithe  and  graceful. 
His  massive  neck  upbore  a  head  of  Augustan  beauty, 
lighted  by  eyes  that  alternately  blazed  with  the  pride 
and  resolution  of  a  Cid  and  softened  with  the  musings 
of  a  Manrique.  Mauro  was  a  Lucha-sangre  of  the 
twelfth  century,  reincarnate. 

Little  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that,  as  the  lad  was 
often  his  father's  message-bearer  to  the  Duke,  he 
found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  Duke's  only  daughter, 
Sofia;  and  still  less  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  he 
early  became  her  thrall.  Of  nights  at  the  university 
he  was  ever  dreaming  of  her ;  up  out  of  his  text-books 
her  lovely  face  was  ever  rising  before  him  in  class. 

Of  a  rare  type  was  Sofia  in  Andalusia,  where 
nearly  all  are  dark,  for  she  was  a  true  rubia,  blue  of 
eye,  fair  of  skin,  and  with  hair  of  the  wondrously 
changing  tints  of  a  cooling  iron  ingot. 

And  now  here  was  Mauro,  just  back  from  Sevilla, 
[278] 


t* 

« 


EL  TIGRE 

almost  within  arm's-reach  of  his  divinity,  and  yet  not 
free  to  seek  her.  And  as  the  rippling  current  of  the 
Guadaira  crimsoned  and  then  reddened  and  darkened 
till  it  seemed  to  him  like  a  great  ruddy  tress  of  Sofia's 
waving  hair,  Mauro  sprang  to  his  feet  and  fiercely 
whispered:  "Mil  demonios!  but  she  shall  at  least 
know,  and  then  I'll  kiss  the  old  padre  and  his  musty 
office  good-bye  and  go  try  my  hand  at  some  man's 
task!" 

Opportunity  came  earlier  than  he  had  dared  hope. 
The  very  next  morning  the  elder  Lucha-sangre  sent 
Mauro  to  the  castle  with  some  papers  for  the  Duke's 
approval  and  signature.  Still  at  breakfast,  the  Duke 
received  him  in  the  great  banquet-hall  of  the  castle, 
the  walls  covered  with  portraits  of  Torreviejas  gone 
before,  several  of  the  earlier  generations  so  dim  and 
gray  with  age  they  looked  mere  spectres  of  the  lim- 
ner's art. 

While  the  Duke  was  reading  the  papers,  Mauro 
stood  with  eyes  riveted  to  the  newest  portrait  of  them 
all,  that  of  Sofia's  mother  —  Sofia's  very  self  ma- 
tured—  herself  a  native  of  a  northern  province 
wherein  to  this  day  red  hair  and  blue  eyes  are  a  fre- 
quent, almost  a  prevailing  type,  that  tell  the  story  of 
early  Gothic  invasions.  So  absorbed  in  the  picture, 
so  completely  possessed  by  it  was  Mauro,  that  when 
the  Duke  turned  and  spoke  to  him,  he  did  not  hear. 

And  so  he  stood  for  some  moments  while  the  Duke 
[279] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

sat  contemplating  the  fine  lines  of  his  face  and  the 
splendid  pose  of  his  figure;  his  eyes  lightened  with 
admiration,  his  head  nodding  approval. 

Then  gently  touching  Mauro's  arm,  the  Duke 
queried:  "And  so  you  admire  the  Duchess,  young 
man?" 

With  a  start  Mauro  answered,  after  a  dazed  stare 
at  the  Duke:  "A  thousand  pardons,  Excellency! 
But  yes,  sir ;  who  in  all  the  world  could  fail  to  admire 
her?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  Duke;  "God  never  made 
but  one  other  quite  her  equal,  and  her  He  made  in  her 
own  very  image  —  Sofia;  que  Dios  la  aguarda!" 

Mauro  gravely  bowed,  received  the  papers  from 
the  Duke,  and  withdrew. 

Turning  to  his  secretary,  the  Duke  sighed  deeply 
and  murmured:  "Dios  mio!  if  only  I  had  a  son  of 
my  own  blood  like  that  boy !  What  a  pity  he  should 
be  tied  down  to  paltry  pettifoggery ! " 

Meantime  Mauro,  striding  disconsolate  past  an 
angle  of  the  narrow  garden  of  the  inner  courtyard, 
Was  detained  by  a  soft  voice  issuing  from  the  seclu- 
sion of  a  bench  beneath  the  drooping  boughs  of  an 
ancient  fig  tree :  "  Buenos  dias,  Don  Mauro.  Bueno 
es  verte  revuelto." 

"  Buenos  dias,  Condesa;  and  it  is  indeed  good  to  me 
to  be  back,  good  to  hear  thy  voice  —  the  first  real  hap- 

[880] 


EL  TIGRE 

piness  I  have  known  since  my  ears  last  welcomed  its 
sweet  tones.  Good  to  be  back!  ah!  Condesa  Sofia, 
for  me  it  is  to  live  again." 

"But,  Don  Mauro— " 

"A  thousand  pardons,  Condesa,  but  thy  duenna 
may  join  thee  at  any  moment,  and  my  heart  has  long 
guarded  a  message  for  thee  it  can  no  longer  hold  and 
stay  whole,  —  a  message  thou  mayest  well  resent  for 
its  gross  presumption,  and  yet  a  message  I  would 
here  and  now  deliver  if  I  knew  I  must  die  for  it  the 
next  minute. 

"From  childhood  hast  thus  possessed  me.  Never 
a  night  for  the  last  ten  years  have  I  lain  down  with- 
out a  prayer  to  the  Virgin  for  thy  safety  and  happi- 
ness ;  never  a  day  but  I  have  so  lived  that  my  conduct 
should  be  worthy  of  thee.  Though  I  am  the  son  of 
thy  father's  licenciado,  thou  well  knowest  the  blood  of 
a  long  line  of  proud  warriors  burns  in  my  veins. 
Hope  that  thou  mightst  ever  even  deign  to  listen  to 
me  I  have  never  ventured  to  cherish — " 

"But  Don  Mauro—" 

"  Again  a  thousand  pardons,  Condesa,  but  I  must 
tell  thee  thou  art  the  light  of  my  soul.  Without  thee 
all  the  world  is  a  valley  of  bitterness;  with  thee  its 
most  arid  desert  would  be  an  Eden.  The  birds  are 
ever  chanting  to  me  thy  name.  Every  pool  reflects 
thy  sweet  face.  Every  breeze  wafts  me  the  fragrance 

[281] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

of  thy  dear  presence.  Every  thunderous  roll  of  the 
Almighty's  war-drums  calls  me  to  attempt  some  great 
heroic  deed  in  thine  honor,  some  deed  that  shall  prove 
to  thee  the  lawyer's  son,  in  heart  and  soul  if  not  in 
present  station,  is  not  unworthy  to  tell  to  thee  his 
love.  And—" 

"But,  Mauro,  Mauro  m — mio!"  And  with  a 
sob  she  arose  and  actually  fled  through  the  shrubbery. 

Two  days  later  the  betrothal  of  the  Countess  Sofia 
to  the  Count  Leon,  the  eldest  son  and  heir  to  the  Duke 
de  Oviedo,  was  announced  by  her  father.  And  that, 
indeed,  was  what  she  had  tried  but  lacked  the  heart 
to  tell  him  —  that,  wherever  her  heart  might  lie,  her 
father  had  already  promised  her  hand ! 

It  was  a  bitter  night  for  Mauro,  that  of  the  an- 
nouncement, and  a  sad  one  for  his  father.  Their 
conference  lasted  till  near  morning.  The  son  pleaded 
he  must  have  a  life  of  action  and  hazard ;  his  country 
at  peace,  he  would  train  for  the  bull  ring. 

"  Why  not  the  opera,  my  son  ?  "  the  thrifty  father 
replied.  "  Thou  hast  a  grand  tenor  voice ;  indeed  the 
Bishop  has  asked  that  thou  wilt  lead  the  choir  of  the 
Cathedral.  With  such  a  voice  thou  wouldst  have  ac- 
tion, see  the  world,  gain  riches,  while  all  the  time 
playing  the  parts,  fighting  the  battles  of  some  great 
historic  character." 

"But  no,  father,"  answered  Mauro;  "such  be  no 

[282] 


EL  TIGRE 

more  than  sham  fights.  Not  only  must  I  wear  a  sword 
as  did  the  early  Lucha-sangres,  but  I  must  hear  it 
ring  and  ring  against  that  of  a  worthy  foe,  feel  it 
steal  within  the  cover  of  his  guard,  see  the  good  blade 
drip  red  in  fair  battle.  True,  there  be  no  Moors  or 
French  to  fight,  but  what  soldier  on  reddened  field  ever 
took  greater  odds  than  a  lone  espada  takes  every  time 
he  challenges  a  fierce  Utrera  bull?  And  I  swear  to 
thee,  padre  mio,  whatever  my  calling,  I  shall  ever  be 
heedful  of  and  cherish  the  motto  that  Lucha-sangre 
swords  have  always  borne :  "  No  me  sacas  sm  razon; 
no  me  metes  sin  honor."  (Do  not  draw  me  without 
good  cause ;  do  not  sheath  me  without  honor !) 

The  less  strong-minded  of  the  two,  the  father 
yielded,  and  even  furnished  funds  sufficient  for  a 
year's  private  tutoring  by  Frascuelo,  then  the  great- 
est matador  in  all  Spain. 

Thus  the  first  time  Mauro  ever  appeared  before  a 
public  assembly  was  as  chief  espada  of  a  cuadnlla 
of  his  own,  at  Valladolid.  An  apt  pupil  from  the 
start,  bent  upon  reaching  the  highest  rank,  of  extra- 
ordinary strength  and  activity,  utterly  fearless  but 
cool  headed,  a  natural  general,  at  the  close  of  his  first 
corrida  he  was  acclaimed  the  certain  successor  of  the 
great  Frascuelo  himself,  and  at  the  same  time  chris- 
tened El  Tigre  (the  Tiger)  for  the  feline  swiftness  of 
his  movements  and  the  ferocity  of  his  attacks. 

[283] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

The  next  eight  years  were  for  El  Tigre  fruitful  of 
fame  and  riches  but  utterly  arid  and  barren  of  even 
the  most  casual  feminine  attachment.  Well  educated, 
clever,  with  the  manners  of  a  courtier,  and  with 
physical  beauty  and  personal  charm  few  men 
equalled,  he  was  invited  by  the  nobility  often,  received 
as  an  equal  by  the  men  and  literally  courted  by  the 
women.  But  the  attentions  of  women  were  all  to  no 
purpose.  For  El  Tigre  only  one  woman  existed  — 
Sofia,  now  the  Duchess  de  Oviedo  —  though  he  had 
never  again  set  eyes  on  her  from  the  hour  of  their 
parting  beneath  the  fig  tree. 

Owners  of  large  Mexican  sugar  estates  in  the  valley 
of  Cuautla,  the  Duke  and  Sofia  divided  their  time  be- 
tween Paris  and  Mexico.  Their  marriage  was  far 
from  happy.  Before  their  union,  busy  tongues  had 
brought  Count  Leon  rumors  of  her  admiration  for 
Mauro,  rousing  suspicions  that  were  not  long  crys- 
tallizing into  certainty  that,  while  she  was  a  faithful, 
honest  wife,  he  could  never  win  of  her  the  affection 
he  gave  and  craved.  Obviously  proud  of  her,  always 
devoted  and  kind,  he  received  from  her  respect  and 
consideration  in  return,  which  indeed  was  all  she  had 
to  give,  for  the  loss  of  Mauro  remained  to  her  an 
ever-gnawing  grief. 

Oddly  enough,  fate  decreed  that  the  destiny  of 
Mauro  and  Sofia  should  be  worked  out  far  afield  from 

[284] 


EL  TIGRE 

their  burning  Utreran  plains,  high  up  on  the  cool 
plateau  of  Central  Mexico. 

For  several  years  most  generous  offers  had  been, 
made  El  Tigre  to  bring  his  cuadrilla  to  Mexico,  but, 
surfeited  with  fame  and  rolling  in  riches,  he  had  de- 
clined them.  At  last,  however,  in  188 — ,  an  offer  was 
made  him  which  he  felt  forced  to  accept — six  thou- 
sand dollars  a  performance  for  ten  corridas,  to  be 
given  on  successive  Sundays  in  the  Plaza  Bucareli  in 
the  City  of  Mexico,  all  expenses  of  himself  and  his 
cuadrilla  to  be  paid  by  the  management.  And  so, 
late  in  April  of  that  year  El  Tigre  arrived  in  Mexico 
with  his  cuadrilla  and  (as  stipulated  in  his  contract) 
sixty  great  Utreran  bulls,  for  the  bulls  of  Utrera  are 
famed  in  toreador  history  and  song  as  the  fiercest, 
most  desperate  fighters  espada  ever  confronted. 

At  the  first  performance  El  Tigre  took  the  Mexi- 
can public  by  storm.  No  such  execution,  daring,  and 
grace  had  ever  been  seen  in  either  Bucareli  or  Colon. 
El  Tigre  was  the  toast  in  every  club  and  cafe  of  the 
city.  Every  shop  window  displayed  his  portrait. 
All  the  journals  sung  his  praises.  Maids  and  ma- 
trons sighed  for  him.  Youth  and  age  envied  him. 
El  Tigre's  coffers  were  well-nigh  bursting  and  his 
cups  of  joy  overflowing,  all  but  the  one  none  but 
Sofia  could  fill. 

Where  she  was  at  the  time  El  Tigre  had  no  idea. 
And  yet,  wholly  unsuspected  by  him,  not  only  were 
[285] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

she  and  the  Duke  in  Mexico,  but  both  had  attended 
all  his  performances  at  Bucareli,  up  to  the  last,  in- 
conspicuous behind  parties  of  friends  they  enter- 
tained in  their  box. 

Whether  it  was  the  Duke  caught  the  pallor  of 
Sofia's  face  in  moments  of  peril  for  Mauro,  or  the 
light  of  pride  and  admiration  in  her  eyes  during  his 
moments  of  triumph,  sure  it  is  the  smouldering  fires 
of  the  Duke's  jealousy  were  rekindled,  and  he  was 
prompted  to  plan  a  test  of  her  bearing,  when  free  of 
the  restraint  of  his  presence.  On  the  morning  of  the 
last  performance  he  announced  that  he  must  spend 
the  afternoon  with  his  attorneys,  and  must  leave  Sofia 
free  to  make  her  own  arrangements  for  attendance 
at  the  last  corrida. 

And  glad  enough  was  she  of  the  chance.  The 
boxes  were  far  too  high  above,  and  distant  from,  the 
arena.  For  days  she  had  coveted  any  of  the  seats 
along  the  lower  rows  of  open  benches,  close  down  to 
the  six-foot  barrier  between  the  ring  and  the  audi- 
torium, close  down  where  she  could  catch  every  shift- 
ing expression  of  Mauro's  mobile  face,  and — where 
he  could  scarcely  fail  to  see  and  recognize  her.  The 
thought  of  seeking  in  any  way  to  meet  or  speak  to 
him  never  entered  her  clean  mind,  but  she  had  been 
more  nearly  a  saint  than  a  woman  if  she  had  been 
able  to  deny  herself  such  an  opportunity  to  convey  to 
him,  in  one  long  burning  glance,  a  knowledge  of  the 
[286] 


EL  TIGRE 

endurance  of  the  love  her  frightened  "Mauro  mio" 
had  plainly  confessed  the  night  of  their  parting  be- 
neath the  fig  tree.  So  it  naturally  followed  that  the 
Duke  was  barely  out  of  the  house  before  Sofia  rushed 
away  a  messenger  to  reserve  a  section  of  the  lower 
benches  immediately  beneath  the  box  of  the  Presi- 
dente,  directly  in  front  of  which  Mauro  must  come, 
at  the  head  of  his  cuadrilla,  to  salute  the  Presidente. 

The  city  was  thronged  with  visitors  come  to  see  El 
Tigre.  Hotels  and  clubs  were  overflowing  with  them. 
And  thousands  of  poor  peons  had  for  months  stinted 
themselves,  often  even  gone  hungry,  to  save  enough 
tlacos  to  buy  admission  to  the  spectacle,  to  them  the 
greatest  and  most  magnificent  it  could  ever  be  their 
good  fortune  to  witness.  The  day  was  perfect,  as 
indeed  are  most  June  days  in  Mexico.  For  two  hours 
before  the  performance  the  principal  thoroughfares 
leading  to  the  Plaza  Bucareli  were  packed  solid  with 
a  moving  throng,  all  dressed  en  fete. 

In  no  country  in  the  world  may  one  see  such  great 
picturesqueness,  variety,  and  brilliancy  of  color  in 
the  costumes  of  the  masses  as  then  still  prevailed  in 
Mexico.  Largely  of  more  or  less  pure  Indian  blood, 
come  of  a  race  Cortez  found  habited  in  feather  tunics 
and  head-dresses  brilliant  as  the  plumage  of  parrots, 
great  lovers  of  flowers,  three  and  a  half  centuries  of 
contact  with  civilization  had  not  served  to  deprive 
them  of  any  of  their  fondness  for  bright  colors. 
[287] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Thus  with  the  horsemen  in  the  graceful  traje  de 
chorro  —  sombreros  and  tight  fitting  soft  leather 
jackets  and  trousers  loaded  with  gold  or  silver  orna- 
ments, the  footmen  swaggering  in  scrapes  of  ever}' 
color  of  the  rainbow,  the  women  wrapped  in  more 
delicately  tinted  rebosas  and  crowned  with  flowers, 
the  winding  streets  looked  like  strips  of  flower  garden 
ambulant. 

Bucareli  seated  twenty  thousand,  and  when  all 
standing-room  had  been  filled  and  the  gates  closed, 
thousands  of  late  comers  were  shut  out. 

The  level,  sanded  ring,  the  theatre  of  action,  was 
surrounded  by  a  six-foot  solid-planked  barrier.  Be- 
hind and  above  the  barrier  rose  the  benches  of  the 
auditorium,  the  "bleachers"  of  the  populace;  they 
rose  to  a  height  of  perhaps  forty  or  fifty  feet,  while 
above  the  uppermost  line  of  benches  were  the  private 
boxes  of  the  elite.  Within  the  ring  were  five  heavily 
planked  nooks  of  refuge,  set  close  to  the  barrier,  be- 
hind which  a  hard  pressed  toreador  might  find  safety 
from  a  charging  bull.  These  refuges  were  little  used, 
however,  except  by  the  underlings,  the  capadores,  or 
by  capsized  plcadores;  espadas  and  banderilleros 
disdained  them.  On  the  west  of  the  ring  was  the 
box  of  the  Presidente  of  the  corrida  (in  this  instance, 
the  Governor  of  the  Federal  District)  ;  on  the  east 
the  main  gate  of  the  ring  through  which  the  cuadrttla 
entered;  on  the  north  the  gate  of  the  bull  pen. 
[288] 


EL  TIGRE 

At  a  bugle  call  from  the  Presidents  s  box,  the  mam 
gate  swung  wide  and  the  cuadrilla  entered,  a  band  of 
lithe,  slender,  clean-shaven  men,  in  slippers,  white 
stockings,  knee  breeches,  and  jackets  of  silk  orna- 
mented with  silver,  each  wearing  the  little  queue  and 
black  rosette  attached  thereto  that  from  time  im- 
memorial Andalusian  toreador es  have  sported. 

El  Tigre  headed  the  squad,  followed  by  two  junior 
matadores,  three  banderilleros,  three  capadores,  and 
two  mounted  picadores,  while  at  the  rear  of  the 
column  came  two  teams  of  little,  half-wild,  prancing, 
dancing  Spanish  mules,  one  team  black,  the  other 
white,  each  composed  of  three  mules  harnessed 
abreast  as  for  a  chariot  race  but  dragging  behind 
them  nothing  but  a  heavy  double  tree,  to  which  the 
dead  of  the  day's  fight  might  be  attached  and  dragged 
out  of  the  arena. 

Each  of  the  footmen  was  wrapped  in  a  large  black 
cloak  passed  over  the  left  shoulder  and  beneath  the 
right,  the  loose  end  of  the  cloak  draped  gracefully 
over  the  left  shoulder,  the  right  arm  swinging  free. 
The  picadores  were  mounted  (as  usual)  on  old 
crowbaits  of  horses,  mere  bags  of  skin  and  bones,  so 
poor  and  thin  that  neither  could  even  raise  a  trot ;  a 
broad  leather  blindfold  fastened  to  their  head-stalls. 
Each  rider  was  seated  in  a  saddle  high  of  cantie  and 
ancient  of  form  as  those  Knights  Templar  jousted  in. 
The  breast  of  each  horse  was  guarded  by  a  great  side 
[289] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

of  sole  leather  falling  nearly  to  the  knees,  while  the 
right  leg  of  each  rider  was  incased  in  such  a  stiff  and 
heavy  leather  leg-guard  as  to  render  him  afoot 
almost  helpless ;  and  he  was  further  guarded  by  still 
another  side  of  sole  leather  swung  from  the  saddle 
horn  and  covering  his  left  leg  and  much  of  his  horse's 
barrel.  On  the  right  stirrup  of  each  picador  rested 
the  butt  of  his  lance,  a  stout  eight-foot  shaft  tipped 
with  a  sharp  steel  prod,  barely  long  enough  to  catch 
and  hold  in  the  bull's  hide. 

As  the  cuadrilla  entered,  a  regimental  band  played 
El  Hymno  National,  the  National  Anthem,  while  the 
vast  audience  roared  and  shrieked  a  welcome  to  the 
gladiators. 

Marching  to  the  time  of  the  music  in  long  tragic 
strides,  heads  proudly  erect,  right  arms  swinging  and 
shoulders  slightly  swaying  in  the  challenging  swag- 
ger which  toreadores  affect,  the  cuadrilla  crossed  the 
arena  and  halted,  close  to  the  barrier,  in  front  of  the 
Presidents  box,  bared  their  heads,  gracefully  sa- 
luted the  Presidente,  and  received  the  key  to  the  bull 
pen  and  his  permission  to  begin  the  fight.  And  as  El 
Tigre's  eyes  fell  from  the  salute  to  the  President e  they 
rested  upon  Sofia,  doubtless  from  some  subtle  tele- 
pathic message,  for  it  was  a  veritable  hill  of  faces  he 
confronted.  There  she  sat  on  the  second  bench-row 
above  the  top  of  the  barrier,  matured  and  fuller  of 
figure  but  radiant  as  at  their  Utreran  parting ;  ther* 
[290] 


EL  TIGRE 

she  sat,  her  gloved  hands  tightly  clenched,  her  lips 
trembling,  her  great  blue  eyes  pouring  into  his  mes- 
sages of  a  love  so  deep  and  pure  that  it  needed  all  his 
self-command  to  keep  from  leaping  the  barrier  and 
falling  at  her  feet. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  transfixed,  staggered, 
almost  overcome  with  surprise  and  delight  again  to 
see  her,  thrilled  with  the  joy  of  her  message,  blazing 
with  revolt  at  the  painful  consciousness  that  she  was 
and  must  remain  another's.  His  emotions  well-nigh 
stopped  the  beating  of  his  heart.  And  so  he  stood 
gazing  into  Sofia's  eyes  until,  self-possession  recov- 
ered, he  gravely  bowed,  turned,  and  waved  his  men 
to  their  posts. 

Instantly  all  was  action,  swift  action.  Cloaks  were 
tossed  to  attendants,  each  footman  received  a  red 
cape,  the  two  picadores  took  position  one  on  either 
side  of  the  bull  pen  gate,  the  band  struck  up  a  tune, 
the  gate  was  opened  and  a  great  Utreran  bull 
bounded  into  the  arena,  maddened  with  the  pain  of 
a  short  banderilla,  with  long  streaming  ribbons, 
stuck  in  his  neck  as  he  entered,  by  an  attendant 
perched  above  the  gate. 

His  equal  had  never  been  seen  in  a  Mexican  bull 
ring.  While  typical  of  his  Utreran  brothers,  all 
princes  of  bovine  fighting  stock,  this  coal-black 
monster  was  by  the  spectators  voted  their  King. 
Relatively  light  of  quarters  and  shallow  of  flank  and 
[291] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

barrel,  he  was  unusually  high  and  humped  of  withers, 
broad  and  deep  of  chest  and  heavy  of  shoulders  — 
indeed  a  well-nigh  perfect  four-legged  type  of  a  finely 
trained  two-legged  athlete,  with  a  pair  of  peculiarly 
straight-upstanding  horns  that  were  long  and  almost 
as  sharp  as  rapiers.  Evidently  by  his  build,  he  was 
of  a  strong  strain  of  East  Indian  Brahminic  blood. 
For  his  great  weight,  his  activity  was  phenomenal  — 
his  leaps  like  a  panther's,  his  turns  as  quick. 

Dazed  for  an  instant  by  the  crash  of  the  music  and 
the  brilliant  banks  of  color  about  him,  he  stood  an- 
grily lashing  his  tail  and  pawing  up  the  sand  in 
clouds  —  "digging  a  grave,"  as  Texas  cowboys  used 
to  call  it  —  his  eyes  blazing  and  head  tossing,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  Then  he  charged  the  nearest 
picador,  literally  leaped  so  high  at  him  that  head  and 
cruel  horns  crossed  above  the  horse's  neck,  his  own 
great  chest  striking  the  horse  just  behind  the  shoul- 
der with  such  force  that  man  and  mount  hit  the 
ground  stunned  and  helpless. 

Barely  were  they  down  when  he  was  upon  them  and, 
with  a  single  twitch  of  his  mighty  neck,  had  ripped 
open  the  horse's  barrel  and  half  amputated  one  of  the 
rider's  legs.  Then,  diverted  by  the  capadores,  he 
whirled  upon  the  second  picador  and  in  another  ten 
seconds  had  left  his  horse  dead  and  the  rider  badly 
trampled.  Next  the  banderilleros  tackled  him,  but 


EL  TJGRE 

such  was  his  speed  and  ferocity  that  all  three  funked 
the  work,  and  not  one  of  them  fastened  his  flag  in  the 
black  shoulders. 

When  the  bull  had  entered  the  ring,  El  Tigre  left 
the  arena  —  a  most  unusual  proceeding.  Now  he  re- 
turned, clad  in  snow-white  from  head  to  foot,  a  white 
cap  covering  head  and  hair,  his  face  heavily  pow- 
dered. He  slipped  in  behind  and  unseen  by  the  bull 
to  the  centre  of  the  arena,  and  there  stood  erect,  with 
arms  folded,  motionless  as  a  graven  image. 

Presently  the  bull  turned,  saw  El  Tigre,  and 
charged  him  straight.  El  Tigre  was  not  even  facing 
him,  for  the  bull  was  approaching  from  his  left.  But 
there  he  stood  without  the  twitch  of  a  muscle  or  the 
flicker  of  an  eye  lid,  still  as  a  figure  of  stone. 

A  great  sob  arose  from  the  audience,  and  all  gave 
him  up  for  lost,  when,  at  the  last  instant  before  the 
bull  must  have  struck,  it  turned  and  passed  him. 
Once  more  the  bull  so  charged  and  passed.  Whether 
because  it  mistook  him  for  the  ghost  of  a  man  or  rec- 
ognized in  him  a  spirit  mightier  than  its  own,  only 
the  bull  knew. 

Before  the  audience  had  well  caught  its  breath,  El 
Tigre,  wearing  again  his  usual  costume,  was  striding 
again  to  the  middle  of  the  arena,  carrying  a  light 
chair,  in  which  presently  he  seated  himself,  facing  the 
bull,  a  short  banderilla,  no  more  than  six  inches  long, 

[293] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

held  in  his  teeth.  And  so  he  awaited  the  charge  until 
the  bull  was  within  actual  arm's-reach,  when  with  a 
swift  rise  from  the  chair  and  a  turn  of  his  body  quick 
as  that  of  a  fencer's  supple  wrist,  he  bent  and  stuck 
the  teeth-held  banderilla  in  the  bull's  shoulder  as  he 
swept  past.  , 

Now  was  the  time  for  the  kill. 

El  Tigre  received  his  sword,  muleta,  and  cape. 
The  muleta  is  a  straight  two-foot  stick  over  which  the 
cape  is  draped,  and,  held  in  the  matador's  left  hand, 
usually  is  extended  well  to  the  right  of  his  body. 
Thus  in  an  ordinary  fight  the  bull  is  actually  charg- 
ing the  blood-red  cape,  and  not  the  matador.  But, 
with  Sofia  an  onlooker,  determined  to  make  this  the 
fight  of  his  life,  El  Tigre  tossed  aside  the  muleta, 
wrapped  the  crimson  cape  about  his  body,  and  stood 
alone  awaiting  the  bull's  charge,  his  malleable  sword- 
blade  bent  slightly  downward,  sufficiently  to  give  a 
true  thrust  behind  the  shoulder,  a  down-curve  into 
heart  or  lungs. 

With  a  bull  of  such  extraordinary  activity  the  act 
was  almost  suicidal,  but  El  Tigre  smilingly  took  the 
chance.  By  toreador  etiquette,  the  matador  must  re- 
ceive and  dodge  the  first  two  charges :  not  until  the 
third  may  he  strike.  On  the  first  charge  El  Tigre 
stood  like  a  rock  until  the  bull  had  almost  reached 
him,  and  then  lightly  leaped  diagonally  across  his 

[294] 


EL  TIGRE 

lowered  neck.  The  second  charge,  come  an  instant 
after  the  first,  before  most  men  could  even  turn,  he 
dodged.  The  third  he  swiftly  side-stepped,  thrust 
true,  and  dropped  the  great  Utreran  midway  of  a 
leap  aimed  at  his  elusive  enemy. 

It  was  a  deed  magnificent,  epic,  and  the  plaza  rung 
with  plaudits  while  hats,  fans,  and  even  purses  and 
jewels  showered  into  the  arena  —  all  of  which,  by 
toreador  etiquette,  were  tossed  back  across  the  bar- 
rier to  their  owners. 

Then  the  teams  entered  and  quickly  dragged  the 
dead  from  the  arena ;  the  ugly,  dangerously  slippery 
red  patches  were  fresh  sanded,  and  the  second  bull 
was  admitted.  Thus,  with  more  or  less  like  incident, 
three  more  bulls  were  fought  and  killed. 

The  fifth  and  last,  however,  proved  a  disgrace  to 
his  race.  Bluff  he  did,  but  fight  he  would  not;  the 
noise  and  crowd  unnerved  him.  At  last,  frenzied  with 
fear  and  seeking  escape,  he  made  a  mighty  leap  to 
mount  the  barrier  directly  in  front  of  the  box  of  the 
Presidente.  And  mount  it  he  did,  and  down  it 
crashed  beneath  his  weight,  leaving  the  bull  for  a 
moment  half  down  and  tangled  in  the  wreckage, 
struggling  to  regain  his  feet. 

Directly  in  front  of  the  bull,  not  six  feet  beyond 
the  sharp  points  of  his  deadly  horns,  sat  Sofia.  In- 
deed none  about  her  had  risen ;  all  sat  as  if  frozen  in 

[295] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

their  places.  And  just  as  well  they  might  have  been, 
for  escape  into  or  through  the  dense  mass  of  specta- 
tors about  them  was  utterly  impossible.  Whatever 
horror  came  they  must  await,  helpless. 

But  at  the  bull's  very  start  for  the  barrier,  El  Ti- 
gre  realized  Sofia's  peril  and  instantly  sprang  empty- 
handed  in  pursuit;  for  it  was  early  in  this  the  last 
corrida  and  he  did  not  have  his  sword. 

Leaping  the  wreckage,  El  Tlgre  landed  directly  in 
front  of  the  bull,  happily  at  the  instant  it  regained 
its  feet,  where,  with  his  right  hand  seizing  the  bull  by 
the  nose  —  his  thumb  and  two  fore-fingers  thrust  well 
within  its  nostrils  —  and  with  his  left  hand  grabbing 
the  right  horn,  with  a  mighty  heave  he  uplifted 
the  bull's  muzzle  and  bore  down  upon  its  horn  until 
he  threw  it  with  a  crash  upon  its  side  that  left  it  mo- 
mentarily helpless. 

But,  himself  slipping  in  the  loose  wreckage,  down 
also  El  Tlgre  fell,  the  bull's  sharp  right  horn  impal- 
ing his  left  thigh  and  pinning  him  to  the  ground. 

Before  the  bull  could  rise,  the  men  of  the  cuadrilla 
had  it  safely  bound  and  El  Tlgre  released.  El  Tlgre, 
however,  did  not  know  it.  With  the  shock  and  pain 
of  his  wound  he  had  fainted. 

When  at  length  he  regained  consciousness,  it  was 
to  find  his  head  pillowed  in  Sofia's  lap,  her  soft  fingers 
caressing  his  brow,  her  tearful  eyes  looking  into  his, 
and  to  hear  her  whisper:  "Mauro  rrdo!" 
[296] 


EL  TIGRE 

Just  at  this  moment  the  Duke  de  Oviedo  ap- 
proached, no  one  knew  whence. 

White  with  jealousy  but  steady  and  cool,  he  quietly 
remarked : 

"Madame,  I  ought  to  kill  you  both,  but  that  my 
rank  precludes.  Lucha-sangre,  in  yourself,  as  son  of 
a  notary  and  hired  toreador  and  purveyor  of  specta- 
cles, you  are  unworthy  of  my  sword;  nevertheless 
blood  once  noble  is  in  your  veins.  And  so  as  noble  it 
suits  me  now  to  count  you.  As  soon  as  you  are  re- 
covered of  your  wound  I  will  send  you  my  second." 

"Most  happy,  Duke,"  answered  Mauro;  "mine 
shall  be  ready  to  meet  him." 

One  evening  a  week  later,  while  the  Duke  de  Oviedo 
and  two  Mexican  army  officers  were  having  drinks 
at  the  bar  of  the  Cafe  Concordia,  General  Delmonte, 
a  Cuban  long  resident  in  New  York  and  a  distin- 
guished veteran  of  three  wars,  entered  with  two 
American  friends.  Delmonte  was  describing  to  his 
friends  El  Tigre's  last  fight,  lauding  his  prowess,  ex- 
tolling his  noble  presence  and  high  character.  Infu- 
riated by  the  ardent  praise  of  his  enemy,  the  Duke 
grossly  insulted  General  Delmonte  —  and  was  very 
promptly  slapped  in  the  face. 

They  fought  at  daylight  the  next  morning,  be- 
neath an  arch  of  the  ancient  aqueduct,  just  outside 
the  city.  Encountering  in  Delmonte  one  of  the  best 
[2971 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

swordsmen  of  his  time,  early  in  the  combat  the  Duke 
received  a  mortal  wound.     And  as  he  there  lay  gasp- 
ing out  his  life,  he  murmured  a  phrase  that,  at  the 
moment,  greatly  puzzled  his  seconds: 
"Gana  El  Tigre."     (The  Tiger  Wing!) 


CHAPTER 

BUNKERED 

IT  seems  it  must  have  been  somewhere  about  the 
year  4000  B.  C.  that  we  lost  sight  of  the  tall 
peaks  of  the  architectural  topography  of  Man- 
hattan Island,  and  yet  the  log  of  the  Black  Prince 
makes  it  no  more  than  twenty  days.     Not  that  our 
day-to-day  time  has  been  dragging,  for  it  has  done 
nothing  of  the  sort. 

All  my  life  long  I  have  dreamed  of  indulging  in 
the  jo}'  of  a  really  long  voyage,  and  now  at  last  I've 
got  it.  New  York  to  Cape  Town,  South  Africa, 
6,900  miles,  thirty  days'  straight-away  run,  and 
thence  another  twenty-four  days'  sail  to  Mombasa, 
on  a  7,000-ton  cargo  boat,  deliberate  and  stately 
rather  than  fast  of  pace,  but  otherwise  as  trim,  well 
groomed,  and  well  found  as  a  liner,  with  an  official 
mess  that  numbers  as  fine  a  set  of  fellows  as  ever  trod 
a  bridge.  The  Captain,  when  not  busy  hunting  up 
a  stray  planet  to  check  his  latitude,  puts  in  his  spare 
time  hunting  kindly  things  to  do  for  his  two  passen- 
gers —  for  there  are  only  two  of  us,  the  Doctor  and 
myself.  The  Doctor  signed  on  the  ship's  articles  as 
surgeon,  I  as  purser. 

[299] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Fancy  it!  Thirty  days'  clear  respite  from  the 
daily  papers,  the  telephone,  the  subway  crowds,  and 
the  constant  wear  and  tear  on  one's  muscular  system 
reaching  for  change,  large  and  small!  Thirty  days 
free  of  the  daily  struggle  either  for  place  on  the  lad- 
der of  ambition  or  for  the  privilege  to  stay  on  earth 
and  stand  about  and  watch  the  others  mount,  that 
saps  metropolitan  nerves  and  squeezes  the  humanities 
out  of  metropolitan  life  until  its  hearts  are  arid  and 
barren  and  cruel  as  those  of  the  cave-men!  Thirty 
days'  repose,  practically  alone  amid  one  of  nature's 
greatest  solitudes,  awed  by  her  silences,  uplifted  by 
the  majesty  of  her  mighty  forces,  with  naught  to  do 
but  humble  oneself  before  the  consciousness  of  his 
own  littleness  and  unfitness,  and  study  how  to  right 
the  wrongs  he  has  done. 

Indeed  a  voyage  like  this  makes  it  certain  one  will 
come  actually  to  know  one's  own  self  so  intimately 
that,  unless  well  convinced  that  he  will  esteem  and 
enjoy  the  acquaintance,  he  had  best  stay  at  home. 
Of  my  personal  experience  in  this  particular  I  beg  to 
be  excused  from  writing. 

Lonesome  out  here?  Far  from  it.  Behind,  to  be 
sure,  are  those  so  near  and  dear,  one  would  gladly 
give  all  the  remaining  years  allotted  him  for  one 
blessed  half-hour  with  them.  Otherwise,  time  liter- 
ally flies  aboard  the  Black  Prince;  the  days  slip  by  at 

[300] 


BUNKERED 

puzzling  speed.  Roughly  speaking,  I  should  say  the 
meals  consume  about  half  one's  waking  hours,  for  we 
are  fed  five  times  a  day,  and  fed  so  well  one  cannot 
get  his  own  consent  to  dodge  any  of  them. 

Indeed  I've  only  one  complaint  to  make  of  this 
ship :  she  is  a  "  water-wagon  "  in  a  double  sense,  which 
makes  it  awkward  for  a  man  who  never  could  drink 
comfortably  alone.  With  every  man  of  the  mess  a 
teetotaler,  one  is  now  and  then  possessed  with  a  con- 
suming desire  for  communion  with  some  dear  soul  of 
thirsty  memory  who  can  be  trusted  to  take  his 
"  straight."  Of  course  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that 
this  mess  cannot  be  trusted,  for  you  can  rely  on  it 
implicitly  every  time — to  take  tea;  you  can  trust  it 
with  any  mortal  or  material  thing,  except  your  pet 
brew  of  tea,  if  you  have  one,  which,  luckily,  I  have  n't. 
Indeed,  for  the  thirsty  man  Nature  herself  in  these 
latitudes  is  discouraging,  for  the  Big  Dipper  stays 
persistently  upside  down,  dry !  —  perhaps  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  teetotal  principles  of  this  ship.  And 
most  of  the  way  down  here  there  has  been  such  a  high 
sea  running  that  the  only  dry  places  I  have  noticed 
have  been  the  upper  bridge  and  my  throat.  The  fact 
is,  about  everything  aboard  this  ship  is  distressingly 
suggestive  to  a  faithful  knight  of  the  tankard:  he  is 
surrounded  with  "ports"  that  won't  flow  and  giant 
"  funnels  "  that  might  easily  carry  spirits  enough  to 

[301] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

wet  the  whistles  of  an  army  division  (but  don't),  un- 
til he  is  tempted  in  sheer  desperation  to  take  a  pull 
at  the  "main  brace." 

All  of  which,  assisted  by  the  advent  of  a  covey  of 
flying  fishes  and  a  (Sunday)  "school"  of  porpoises, 
is  responsible  for  the  following,  which  is  adventured 
with  profuse  apologies  to  Mr.  Kipling: 


ON   THE  ROAD  TO   MOMBASA 

Take  me  north  of  the  Equator 
Where  'er  gleams  the  polar  star, 
Where  "  The  Dipper  "  ne'er  is  empty 
And  Orion  is  not  far, 
Where  the  eagle  at  them  gazes 
And  up  toward  them  thrusts  the  pine  — 
Anywhere  strong  men  drink  spirits 
On  the  right  side  of  "  the  line." 

On  the  road  to  Mombas-a, 
Drawing  nearer  toward  Cathay, 
Where  the  north  star  now  is  under, 
'Neath  the  Southern  Cross's  ray. 

Take  me  off  this  water  wagon 
Where  the  Captain's  ribbon  's  blue, 
Where  the  Doctor,  yclept  Barthwaite, 
And  each  man- jack  of  the  crew 
[302] 


BUNKERED 

Never  get  a  drop  of  poteen, 
Never  know  the  cheer  of  beer  — 
Anywhere  a  thirsty  man  may 
Wet  his  whistle  without  fear. 

On  the  road  to  Mombas-a, 
With  the  Black  Prince  day  by  daj 
Rolling  her  tall  taffrail  under, 
'Neath  a  sky  o'ercast  and  gray. 

Take  me  back  to  good  old  Proctor's 
Where  a  man  may  quench  his  thirst, 
Where  a  purser  with  a  shilling 
Need  n't  feel  he  is  accursed 
By  an  ironclad  owners'  ship  rule 
That  her  officers  should  n't  drink — 
Anywhere  the  ringing  glasses 
Merrily  clink!  clink! 

On  the  road  to  Mombas-a, 
Where  the  only  drink  is  "  tay," 
Where  a  thirst  that  is  a  wonder 
Burns  the  throat  from  day  to  day. 

Take  me  somewhere  close  to  Rector's 
Where  a  man  can  get  a  crab, 
Where  the  blondined  waves  are  tossing 
And  every  eye-glance  is  a  stab, 
[303] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Where  there 's  froufrou  of  the  jupon 
And  there 's  popping  of  the  cork  — 
Anywhere  the  men  and  women 
Snap  their  fingers  at  the  stork. 

v  On  the  road  to  Mombas-a, 

Where  e'en  mermaids  never  play, 
Where  to  come  would  be  a  blunder 
Hunting  hot  birds  and  Roger. 

But  lonesome  out  here?  Never  —  with  the  sympa- 
thetic North  Atlantic  winds  ever  ready  to  roar  you 
a  grim  dirge  in  your  moments  of  melancholy  contem- 
plation of  the  inverted  Dipper,  with  the  gentle  trop- 
ical breezes  softly  singing  through  the  rigging  notes 
of  soothing  cadence,  with  the  lethal  ocean  billows 
ever  leaping  up  the  sides  of  the  ship,  foaming  with  the 
joy  of  what  they  would  do  to  you  if  they  once  got 
you  in  their  embrace! 

Lonesome?  With  the  coming  and  the  going  of 
each  day's  sun  gilding  cloud-crests,  silvering  waves, 
setting  you  matchless  scenes  in  color  effect,  some  rav- 
ishing in  their  gorgeous  splendor,  some  soft  and  ten- 
der of  tone  as  the  light  in  the  eyes  of  the  woman  you 
worship,  scenes  beside  which  the  most  brilliant  stage 
settings  which  metropolitans  flock  like  sheep  to  see 
are  pathetically  paltry  counterfeits. 

Lonesome?  With  a  mighty,  joyously  bounding 
[304] 


BUNKERED 

charger  like  the  Black  Prince  beneath  your  feet  if 
not  between  your  knees,  gayly  taking  the  tallest  bil- 
lows in  his  stride,  whose  ever  steady  pulse-beat  be- 
speaks a  soundness  of  wind  and  limb  you  can  trust 
to  land  you  well  at  the  finish ! 

Lonesome?  Where  privileged  to  descend  into  the 
very  vitals  of  your  charger  and  sit  throughout  the 
midnight  watch,  an  awed  listener  to  the  throbs  of  the 
mighty  heart  that  vitalizes  his  every  function,  while 
each  vigorously  thrusting  piston,  each  smug,  palm- 
rubbing  eccentric,  each  somnolently  nodding  lever, 
drives  deeper  into  your  lay  brain  an  overwhelming 
sense  of  pride  in  such  of  your  kind  as  have  had  the 
genius  to  conceive,  and  such  others  as  have  had  the 
skill  and  patience  to  perfect,  the  conversion  of  inert 
masses  of  crude  metal  into  the  magnificently  power- 
ful and  obviously  sentient  entity  that  is  bearing  you ! 

Lonesome?  Skirting  the  coastline  of  Africa,  a 
country  whose  potentates,  from  the  Ptolemies  to  Tom 
Ryan,  have  never  failed  to  make  world  history  worth 
thinking  about! 

Lonesome?  Bearing  up  toward  that  sea-made 
manacle  of  fallen  majesty,  St.  Helena,  absorbed  in 
memories  of  Bonaparte's  magnificent  dreams  of 
world-wide  dominion,  and  of  his  pathetic  end  on  one 
of  its  smallest  and  most  isolated  patches! 

Lonesome?  With  a  chum  at  your  elbow  so  close 
a  student  of  the  manly  game  of  war  that  he  can  gliblj 
[305] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

reel  off  for  you  every  important  manoeuvre  of  all  the 
great  battles  of  history,  from  those  of  Alexander  the 
Great  down  to  Tommy  Burns's  latest! 

And  now  and  then  the  elements  themselves  sit  in 
and  take  a  hand  in  our  game,  sometimes  a  hand  we 
could  very  well  do  without  —  as  twice  lately. 

The  first  instance  happened  early  last  week.  Tues- 
day tropical  weather  hit  us  and  drove  us  into  pa- 
jamas—  a  cloudless  sky,  blazing  sun,  high  humidity, 
while  we  ploughed  our  way  across  long,  slow-rolling, 
unrippled  swells  that  looked  so  much  like  a  vast, 
gently  heaving  sea  of  petroleum  that,  had  John  D. 
Standardoil  been  with  us  he  would  have  suffered  a 
probably  fatal  attack  of  heart  disease  if  prevented 
from  stopping  right  there  and  planning  a  pipe  line. 

Throughout  the  day  close  about  the  ship  clouds 
of  flying  fish  skimmed  the  sea,  and  great  schools  of 
porpoises  leaped  from  it  and  raced  us,  as  if,  even  to 
them,  their  native  element  had  become  hateful,  or  as 
if  they  sensed  something  ominous  and  fearsome 
abroad  from  which  they  sought  shelter  in  our  com- 
pany. One  slender  little  opal-hued  diaphanous- 
winged  bird-fish  came  aboard,  and  before  he  was 
picked  up  had  the  happy  life  grilled  out  of  him  on 
our  scorching  iron  deck,  hot  almost  as  boiler  plates. 
Poor  little  chap!  he  found  with  us  anything  but 
sanctuary;  but  perhaps  he  lived  long  enough  to  sig- 
nal the  fact  to  his  mates,  for  no  others  boarded  us. 
[306] 


BUNKERED 

And  yet  for  one  other  opal-hued  winged  wanderer 
we  have  been  sanctuary ;  for  when  we  were  about  one 
hundred  and  fifty  miles  out  of  New  York  a  highly 
bred  carrier  pigeon,  bearing  on  his  leg  a  metal  tag 
marked  "32,"  hovered  about  us  for  a  time,  finally 
alighted  on  our  rail,  and  then  fluttered  to  the  deck 
when  offered  a  pan  of  water  —  and  drank  and  drank 
until  it  semed  best  to  stop  him.  By  kindness  and  in- 
genuity of  Chief  Engineer  Tucker  he  now  occupies 
a  tin  house  with  a  wonderful  mansard  roof,  from 
which  he  issues  every  afternoon  for  an  aerial  consti- 
tutional, giving  us  a  fright  occasionally  with  a  flight 
over  far  a-sea,  but  always  returning  safely  enough  to 
his  new  diggings. 

That  Tuesday  morning  the  sun  rose  fiery  red  out 
of  the  steaming  Guinea  jungles  to  the  east  of  us, 
across  its  lower  half  two  narrow  black  bars  sinister. 
It  looked  as  if  it  had  blood  in  its  eye,  while  the  still, 
heavy,  brooding  air  felt  to  be  ominous  of  evil,  har- 
boring devilment  of  some  sort.  All  the  mess  were 
cross-grained,  silent,  or  irritable,  raw-edged  for  the 
first  time,  for  a  better  lot  of  fellows  one  could  not  ask 
to  ship  with.  Nor  throughout  the  day  did  weather 
conditions  or  tempers  improve.  All  day  long  the  sky 
was  heavily  overcast  with  dense,  low-hanging,  dark 
gray  clouds,  which,  while  wholly  obscuring  the  sun, 
seemed  to  focus  its  rays  upon  us  like  a  vast  burning- 
glass  ;  wherefore  it  was  expedient  for  the  two  pa  jama- 
[307] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

clad  passengers  to  keep  well  within  the  shelter  of  the 
bridge-deck  awning.  Toward  sunset,  a  dense  black 
wall  of  cloud  settled  upon  the  western  horrizon,  aft 
of  us.  But  suddenly,  just  at  the  moment  the  sun 
must  have  been  descending  below  the  horizon  to  the 
south  of  it,  the  black  wall  of  cloud  slowly  parted,  and 
the  opening  so  made  widened  until  it  became  an  enor- 
mous oval,  reaching  from  horizon  half  way  to  zenith, 
framing  a  scene  of  astounding  beauty  and  grandeur. 
Range  after  range  of  cloud  crests  that  looked  like 
mountain  folds  rose  one  above  another,  with  the 
appearance  of  vast  intervening  space  between,  some 
of  the  ranges  a  most  delicate  blue  or  pink,  some 
opalescent,  some  gloriously  gilded,  while  behind 
the  farthest  and  tallest  range,  at  what  seemed  an 
inconceivably  remote  distance,  but  in  a  perspective 
entirely  harmonious  with  the  foreground,  appeared 
the  sky  itself,  a  soft  luminous  straw-yellow  in  color* 
flecked  thickly  over  with  tiny  snow-white  cloudlets. 
It  was  like  a  glimpse  into  another  and  more  beautiful 
world  than  ours — the  actual  celestial  world. 

But,  whether  or  not  ominous  of  our  future,  we  were 
permitted  no  more  than  a  brief  glimpse  of  it,  for 
presently  the  pall  of  black  cloud  fell  like  a  vast  drop 
curtain  and  shut  it  from  our  sight.  Then  night  came 
down  upon  us,  black,  starless,  forbidding,  although 
in  the  absence  of  any  fall  of  the  barometer  nothing 
more  than  a  downpour  of  rain  was  expected. 
[308] 


BUNKERED 

But  shortly  after  I  had  gone  to  sleep,  at  two  o'clock, 
suddenly  something  in  the  nature  of  a  tropical 
tornado  flew  up  and  struck  us  hard.  I  was  awak- 
ened by  a  tremendous  crash  on  the  bridge-deck  above 
my  cabin,  a  heeling  over  of  the  ship  that  nearly 
dumped  me  out  of  my  berth,  and  what  seemed  like  a 
solid  spout  of  water  pouring  in  through  my  open 
weather  porthole,  with  the  wind  howling  a  devil's 
death-song  through  the  rigging  and  an  uninterrupted 
smash  —  bang!  above  my  head. 

Throwing  on  a  rain  coat  over  my  pajamas,  I  went 
outside  and  up  the  ladder  leading  to  the  bridge-deck ; 
and  as  head  and  shoulders  rose  above  the  deck  level, 
a  wall  of  hot,  wind-born  rain  struck  me  —  rain  so  hot 
it  felt  almost  scalding  —  that  almost  swept  me  off  the 
ladder.  If  it  had  I  should  probably  have  become 
food  for  the  fishes.  I  got  to  the  upper  deck  just  in 
time  to  see  Captain  Thomas  get  a  crack  on  the  head 
from  a  fragment  of  flying  spar  of  the  wreckage  from 
the  upper  bridge  —  luckily  a  glancing  blow  that  did 
no  more  damage  than  leave  him  groggy  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

For  the  next  fifteen  minutes  I  was  busy  hugging  a 
bridge  stanchion,  dodging  flying  wreckage  and  try- 
ing to  breathe;  for,  driven  by  the  violence  of  the 
wind,  the  rain  came  horizontally  in  such  suffocatingly 
hot  dense  masses  as  nearly  to  stifle  one. 

It  was  the  watch  of  Second  Mate  Isitt.  Afterwards 
[309] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

he  told  me  that  a  few  minutes  before  the  storm  broke 
he  saw  a  particularly  dense  black  cloud  coming  up 
upon  us  out  of  the  southeast,  where  it  had  appar- 
ently been  lying  in  ambush  for  us  behind  the  north- 
ernmost headland  of  the  Gulf  of  Guinea,  an  ambush 
so  successful  that  even  the  barometer  failed  to  detect 
it,  for  when  Mate  Isitt  ran  to  the  chart-room  he  found 
that  the  instrument  showed  no  fall.  But  scarcely  was 
he  back  on  the  bridge  before  the  approaching  cloud 
flashed  into  a  solid  mass  of  sheet  lightning  that  cov- 
ered the  ship  like  a  fiery  canopy ;  and  instantly  there- 
after, a  wall  of  wind  and  rain  hit  the  ship,  heeled  her 
over  to  the  rail,  swung  her  head  at  right  angles  to 
her  course,  ripped  the  heavy  canvas  awning  of  the 
upper  bridge  to  tatters,  bent  and  tore  loose  from 
their  sockets  the  thick  iron  stanchions  supporting  it, 
made  kindling  wood  of  its  heavy  spars,  and  strewed 
the  bridge  and  forward  deck  with  a  pounding  tangle 
of  wreckage.  How  the  mate  and  helmsman,  who 
were  directly  beneath  it,  escaped  injury,  is  a  mystery. 
In  twenty  minutes  the  riot  of  wind  and  water  had 
swept  past  us  out  to  sea  in  search  of  easier  game, 
leaving  behind  it  a  dead  calm  above  but  mountain- 
ous seas  beneath,  that  played  ball  with  us  the  rest  of 
the  night.  Heaven  help  any  wind-jammer  it  may 
have  struck,  for  if  caught  as  completely  unwarned 
as  were  we,  with  all  sails  set,  she  and  all  her  crew  are 

[310] 


BUNKERED 

likely  to  be  still  slowly  settling  through  the  dense 
darksome  depths  of  the  twenty-five  hundred  fathoms 
the  chart  showed  thereabouts,  and  weeping  wives  and 
anxious  underwriters  will  long  be  scanning  the  news 
columns  that  report  all  sea  goings  and  comings  — 
except  arrivals  in  the  port  of  sunken  ships. 

The  second  fall  the  elements  have  essayed  to  take 
out  of  us  remains  yet  undecided.  The  fact  is,  I  am 
now  writing  over  a  young  volcano  we  are  all  hoping 
will  not  grow  much  older. 

Two  nights  ago  I  was  awakened  half  suffocated, 
to  find  my  cabin  full  of  strong  sulphurous  fumes ;  but 
fancying  them  brought  in  through  my  open  portholes 
from  the  smoke-stack  by  a  shift  aft  of  the  wind,  I 
paid  no  further  attention  to  them.  But  when  the 
next  morning  I  as  usual  turned  out  on  deck  to  see 
the  sun  rise,  a  commotion  aft  of  me  attracted  my  at- 
tention. Looking,  I  saw  the  first  mate,  chief  en- 
gineer, and  a  party  of  sailors,  all  so  begrimed  with 
sweat  and  coal  dust  one  could  scarcely  pick  officers 
from  seamen,  rapidly  ripping  off  the  cover  of  one  of 
the  midship  hatches,  while  others  were  flying  about 
connecting  up  the  deck  fire  hose.  This  did  n't  look 
a  bit  good  to  me,  and  when,  an  instant  later,  off  came 
the  hatch  and  out  poured  thick  volumes  of  smoke,  I 
failed  to  observe  that  it  looked  any  better. 

When  the  hatch  was  removed,  the  men  thrust  the 

[Sill 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

hose  through  it,  and  began  deluging  the  burning 
bunker  with  water;  for,  luckily,  it  is  only  a  bunker 
fire,  —  in  a  lower  and  comparatively  small  bunker. 

The  fire  had  been  discovered  early  the  day  previ- 
ous, and  for  nearly  twenty-four  hours  officers  and 
seamen  had  been  fighting  it  from  below,  without  any 
mention  to  their  two  passengers  of  its  existence,  fight- 
ing by  tireless  shovelling  to  reach  its  seat.  And  now 
they  were  on  deck,  attacking  it  from  above,  only  be- 
cause the  heat  and  fumes  below  had  become  so  over- 
powering they  could  no  longer  work  there.  But 
after  an  hour's  ventilation  through  the  hatch  and  a 
continuous  downpour  of  water,  the  first  mate  again 
led  his  men  below. 

And  so,  the  usual  watches  being  divided  into  two- 
hour  relays,  the  fight  has  gone  on  wearily  but  persist- 
ently, until  now,  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day,  the 
men  are  wan  and  haggard  from  the  killing  heat  and 
foul  air.  In  the  engine-room  in  these  latitudes  the 
thermometer  ranges  from  rarely  under  108  degrees 
up  to  130,  and  one  has  to  stay  down  there  only  an 
hour,  as  I  often  have,  until  he  is  streaming  with  sweat 
as  if  he  were  in  the  unholiest  heat  of  a  Turkish  bath. 
And  as  the  burning  bunker  immediately  adjoins  the 
other  end  of  the  boiler  room,  to  the  heat  of  its  own 
smouldering  mass  is  added  that  of  the  fire  boxes,  until 
the  temperature  is  probably  close  to  140  degrees. 

While  the  fire  is  confined  to  the  bunker  where  it 
[312] 


BUNKERED 

started,  we  are  in  no  particular  danger;  but  if  it 
reaches  the  bunker  immediately  above,  it  will  have  a 
free  run  to  the  after  hold,  where  several  thousand 
packages  of  case  oil  are  stored.  In  the  open  waist 
above  the  oil  are  a  score  or  more  big  tanks  of  gaso- 
line, and,  on  the  poop  immediately  aft  of  that,  a 
quantity  of  dynamite  and  several  thousand  detonat- 
ing caps.  Thus  if  the  fire  ever  gets  aft,  things  are 
apt  to  happen  a  trifle  quicker  than  they  can  be 
dodged. 

To  denizens  of  terra  firma,  the  mere  thought  of 
being  aboard  a  ship  on  fire  in  mid-sea  —  we  are  now 
five  hundred  miles  from  the  little  British  island  of 
Ascension  and  one  thousand  and  eighty  off  the  Congo 
(mainland)  Coast — is  nothing  short  of  appalling. 
But  here  with  us,  in  actual  experience,  it  is  taken  by 
the  officers  of  the  ship  as  such  a  simple  matter  of 
course,  in  so  far  as  they  show  or  will  admit,  that  we 
are  even  denied  the  privilege  of  a  mild  thrill  of 
excitement. 

In  the  meantime  there  is  nothing  for  the  Doctor 
and  myself  to  do  but  sit  about  and  guess  whether  it 
is  to  be  a  boost  from  the  explosives,  a  simple  grill,  a 
descent  to  Davy  Jones,  an  adventure  while  athirst 
and  hungering  in  an  open  boat  on  the  tossing  Southl 
Atlantic,  a  successful  run  of  the  ship  to  the  nearest 
land  —  or  victory  over  the  fire.  I  wonder  which  it 
will  be! 

[313] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  I  intend  to  do  for 
these  pages  what  no  one  these  last  three  weeks  has 
done  for  me  —  commit  them  to  a  bottle,  if  I  can  find 
one  aboard  this  ship,  which  is  by  no  means  certain. 
Indeed  it  is  so  uncertain  I  think  I  had  best  start 
hunting  one  right  now. 

After  nearly  a  twenty-four  hours'  search  I've  got 
it  —  a  craft  to  bear  these  sheets,  wide  of  hatch,  gen- 
erously broad  and  deep  of  hull,  but  destitute  of  aught 
of  the  stimulating  aroma  I  had  hoped  might  cheer 
them  on  their  voyage  —  more  than  I  have  been 
cheered  on  mine.  For  the  best  I  am  able  to  procure 
for  them  is  —  a  jam  bottle! 

While  the  Doctor  and  I  are  not  novices  at  golf, 
this  is  one  "bunker"  we  are  making  so  little  headway 
getting  out  of,  that  both  now  seem  likely  to  quit 
"down"  to  it. 

I  wonder  when  the  little  derelict,  tiny  and  incon- 
spicuous as  a  Portuguese  man-of-war,  may  be  picked 
up ;  I  wonder  when  the  sheets  it  bears  may  reach  my 
publisher  to  whom  it  is  consigned.  Perhaps  not  for 
years  —  a  score,  two  score;  perhaps  not  until  he 
himself,  whom  a  few  weeks  ago  I  left  in  the  lusty  vigor 
of  early  manhood,  is  gathered  to  his  fathers ;  perhaps 
not,  therefore,  until  the  writer  has  no  publisher  left 
and  is  himself  no  longer  remembered. 

The  burning  bunker  is  now  a  glowing  furnace,  the 


BUNKERED 

men  worked  down  to  mere  shadows.  Plainly  the  fire 
is  getting  the  best  of  them  and,  what  is  even  more 
discouraging,  there  is  little  more  fight  left  in  them. 

First  Mate  Watson,  who,  almost  without  rest,  has 
led  the  fight  below  since  it  started,  says  that  another 
half -hour  will  — 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THEY    WHO    MUST   BE    OBEYED 

FEW  mightier  monarchs   than   Menelek   II   of 
Abyssinia  ever  swayed  the  destinies  of  a  peo- 
ple.     Throughout  the   vast  territory  of  the 
Abyssinian   highlands  his   individual   will  is   law  to 
some  millions  of  subjects;  law  also  to  hordes  of  sav- 
age Mohammedan  and  pagan  tribesmen  without  the 
confines  of  his  kingdom.    His  court  includes  no  coun- 
cillors.   Alone  throughout  the  long  years  of  his  reign 
Menelek  has  dealt  with  all  domestic  and  foreign  af- 
fairs of  state. 

But  now  this  last  splendid  survival  of  the  feudal 
absolutism  exercised  and  enjoyed  by  mediaeval  rulers 
is  about  to  disappear  beneath  encroaching  waves  of 
civilization,  that  do  not  long  spare  the  picturesque. 
Cables  from  far-off  Adis  Ababa,  Menelek's  capital, 
bring  news  that  he  has  formed  a  cabinet  and  pub- 
lished the  appointment  of  Ministers  of  War,  Finance, 
Justice,  Foreign  Affairs,  and  Commerce.  And  this 
change  has  come,  not  from  the  pressure  of  any  party 
or  faction  within  his  kingdom,  for  such  do  not  exist, 
but  out  of  the  fount  of  his  own  wisdom.  So  sound  is 
this  wisdom  as  to  prove  him  a  most  worthy  descendant 
[316] 


THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED 

of  the  sage  Hebrew  King  whom  Menelek  claims  as 
ancestor  —  if,  indeed,  more  proofs  were  necessary 
than  the  statesmanlike  way  in  which  he  has  dealt  with 
jealous  diplomats,  and  the  martial  skill  with  which, 
at  Adowa  in  1896,  he  defeated  the  flower  of  the  Ital- 
ian army  and  won  from  Italy  an  honorable  truce. 

No  existing  royal  house  owns  lineage  so  ancient  as 
that  claimed  by  Menelek  II,  Negus  Negusti,  "King 
of  the  Kings  of  Ethiopa,  and  Conquering  Lion  of 
Judah." 

Old  Abyssinian  tradition  has  it  that  in  the  tenth 
century,  B.  C.,  early  in  her  reign,  Makeda,  Queen  of 
Sheba,  paid  a  ceremonial  visit  to  the  Court  of  King 
Solomon,  coming  with  her  entire  court  and  a  magnifi- 
cent retinue  bearing  royal  gifts  of  frankincense  and 
balm,  gold  and  ivory  and  precious  stones.  Her  gor- 
geous caravan  was  bright  with  the  many-colored 
plumes  and  silks  of  litters,  blazing  with  the  golden 
ornaments  of  elephant  and  camel  caparisons,  glitter- 
ing with  the  glint  of  spears  and  bucklers. 

That  the  two  greatest  souls  of  their  time,  so  met, 
should  fuse  and  blend  is  little  to  be  wondered  at. 
She  of  Sheba  bore  Solomon  a  son  and  called  him 
Menelek,  so  the  legend  runs.  Later  the  boy  was 
twitted  by  playmates  for  that  he  had  no  father.  In 
this  annoyance  the  Queen  sent  an  embassy  to  Solo- 
mon asking  some  act  that  should  establish  their  son's 
royal  paternity.  Promptly  Solomon  returned  the 
[317] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

embassy  bearing  to  Sheba's  court  in  far  southwest 
Arabia  a  royal  decree  declaring  Menelek  his  son,  and 
accompanied  it  by  a  son  of  each  of  the  leaders  of  the 
twelve  tribes  of  Israel,  enjoined  to  serve  as  a  sort  of 
juvenile  royal  court  to  Menelek. 

Whether  or  not  the  claim  of  Menelek  II  be  true, 
that  he  himself  is  lineally  descended  from  the  son  of 
Solomon  and  Sheba's  Queen,  certain  it  is  that  in  race 
type  Abyssinians  are  plainly  come  of  sons  of  Israel, 
crossed  and  modified  with  Coptic,  Hamite,  and  Ethi- 
opian blood.  To  this  day  they  cling  closely  as  the 
most  orthodox  Hebrew,  to  some  of  the  dearest  Israel- 
itish  tenets,  notably  abstention  from  pork  and  from 
meat  not  killed  by  bleeding,  observance  of  the  Sab- 
bath, and  the  rite  of  circumcision.  Notwithstanding 
this  the  Abyssinians  have  been  Christians  since  the 
fourth  century  of  this  era,  when,  only  eight  years 
after  the  great  Constantine  decreed  the  recognition  of 
Christianity  by  the  State,  a  proselyting  monk  came 
among  them  with  a  faith  so  strong,  a  heart  so  pure, 
and  an  eloquence  so  irresistible,  that,  singlehanded, 
he  accomplished  the  conversion  of  the  Abyssinian 
race. 

Throughout  the  centuries  the  Abyssinians  have 
held  fast  to  their  faith  as  first  it  was  taught  them. 
The  great  wave  of  Mohammedanism  that  swept  up 
the  Nile  and  across  the  Indian  Ocean  broke  and 
parted  the  moment  it  struck  the  Abyssinian  plateau. 
[318] 


Menelek  II,  Negus  Negusti,  "King  of  the  Kings  of  Ethiopa, 
and  Conquering  Lion  of  Judah" 


THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED 

It  completely  surrounded,  but  never  could  mount 
the  tableland. 

Thus  cut  off  for  centuries  from  all  other  Christian 
Churches,  the  Abyssinian  religion  remains  to-day  but 
little  changed.  Could  Paul  or  John  return  to  earth, 
of  all  the  Christian  sects  throughout  the  world,  the 
forms  and  tenets  of  the  Abyssinian  Church  would  be 
the  only  ones  they  would  find  nearly  all  their  own; 
for  the  ritual  is  older  than  that  of  either  Rome  or 
Moscow. 

And  remembering  the  Abyssinian  folklore  tale  of 
the  twelve  sons  of  the  chiefs  of  the  twelve  tribes  of 
Israel  sent  by  Solomon  to  Makeda  as  attendants  on 
Menelek  I,  it  is  most  curious  and  interesting  to  know 
that  the  heads  of  certain  twelve  Abyssinian  families 
(none  of  whom  are  longer  notables,  some  even  the 
rudest  ignorant  herdsmen),  and  their  forebears  from 
time  immemorial,  have  had  and  still  possess  inaliena- 
ble right  of  audience  with  their  monarch  at  any  time 
they  may  ask  it,  even  taking  precedence  over  royalty 
itself.  Indeed  Mr.  George  Clerk,  for  the  last  five  years 
assistant  to  Sir  John  Harrington,  British  Minister 
to  the  Court  of  Menelek,  recently  told  me  that  he  and 
other  diplomats  accredited  to  Adis  Ababa,  were  not 
infrequently  subjected  to  the  annoyance  of  having  an 
audience  interrupted  or  delayed  by  the  unannounced 
coming  for  a  hearing  of  one  of  these  favored  twelve. 

Many  of  Menelek's  judgments  are  masterpieces. 
[319] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Recently  two  brothers  came  before  him,  the  younger 
with  the  plaint  that  the  elder  sought  the  larger  and 
better  part  of  certain  property  they  had  to  divide. 
Promptly  Menelek  ordered  the  elder  to  describe  fully 
the  entire  property  and  state  what  part  he  wanted  for 
himself.  It  was  done. 

"And  this,"  questioned  Menelek,  "you  consider  a 
just  division  of  the  property  into  two  parts  of  equal 
value?" 

"  Yes,  Negus,"  answered  the  elder. 

"Then,"  decreed  Menelek,  "give  your  brother 
first  choice ! " 

Over  wide  territory  beyond  the  Abyssinian  border, 
Menelek's  power  is  as  much  feared  and  his  will  as 
much  respected  as  among  his  own  subjects.  Of  this 
there  occurred  recently  a  most  dramatic  proof. 

Bordering  Abyssinia  on  the  east  is  the  Danakil 
country.  It  adjoins  the  Province  of  Shoa,  of  which 
Menelek  was  Has,  or  feudal  King,  before  his  acces- 
sion to  the  Abyssinian  throne.  The  Danakils  are  a 
savage  pagan  people  of  mixed  Hamite  (early  Egyp- 
tian) and  Ethiopian  ancestry.  They  are  perhaps 
the  most  tirelessly  warlike  race  in  all  Africa.  Often 
severely  beaten  by  their  Italian  and  Somali  neighbors, 
they  have  never  been  subdued.  Indeed  slaughter 
may,  in  a  way,  be  said  to  be  a  part  of  their  religion, 
for  it  is  the  fetich  every  young  warrior  must  provide 
for  the  worship  of  the  woman  of  his  choice  before  he 
[320] 


THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED 

may  hope  to  win  and  have  her.  It  is  necessary  that 
he  should  have  killed  royal  game  —  lion,  rhinoceros, 
or  elephant  —  but  not  enough.  Singlehanded  he  must 
kill  a  man  and  bring  the  maid  a  trophy  of  the  slaugh- 
ter before  she  will  even  consider  him,  and  Danakil 
maids  of  spirit  often  demand  some  plurality  of  tro- 
phies. Thus  the  license  for  each  Danakil  mating  is 
written  in  the  life  blood  of  some  neighboring  tribes- 
man ;  thus  are  the  few  poltroons  in  Danakilland  con- 
demned to  stay  celibate. 

Only  Menelek's  word  do  they  heed ;  his  might  they 
dread. 

Through  the  Danakil  country,  between  Errer 
Gotto  and  Oder,  not  long  ago  travelled  the  caravan 
of  William  Northrup  McMillan,  conveying  the  sec- 
tions of  several  steel  boats  with  which  he  purposed 
navigating  and  exploring  the  Blue  Nile  from  its 
source  to  Khartoom,  a  region  that  had  never  been 
traversed  by  white  men.  In  the  party  was  M.  Dubois- 
Desaulle,  a  gay  and  reckless  ex-officer  of  the  French 
Foreign  Legion  who  had  long  served  in  Algiers 
against  raiding  Arab  sheiks.  He  harbored  no  fear  of 
the  unorganized  wild  tribesmen  through  whose  coun- 
try they  were  travelling.  McMillan  knew  them  bet- 
ter, however ;  he  held  his  command  under  strict  mili- 
tary discipline,  marched  in  close  order  with  scouts 
out,  forbade  straying  from  the  column,  and  zareba-ed 
his  night  camps.  For  the  march  was  a  severe  one 
[321] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

and  he  had  neither  the  time  nor  sufficient  force  to 
search  for  or  to  succor  missing  stragglers. 

Urged  with  the  rest  never  to  go  unarmed  and  to 
stay  close  with  the  caravan,  Dubois-Desaulle's  only 
reply  was  a  laughing,  "  Jamais!  Jamais.  Je  ne  porte 
pas  des  armes  pour  ces  babouins!  Je  les  ferai  s'enfuir 
avec  des  batons!  N'inquietez  pas  de  moi." 

Interested  in  botany  and  entomology,  holding  the 
natives  in  utter  contempt,  repeatedly  he  strayed  from 
the  column  for  hours  without  even  so  much  as  a  pis- 
tol by  way  of  arms,  until  finally  McMillan  told  him 
that  if  he  again  so  strayed  he  would  be  placed  under 
guard  for  the  balance  of  the  march.  But  the  very 
next  day,  riding  a  mule  with  the  advance  guard  led 
by  H.  Morgan  Brown,  Dubois-Desaulle  slipped  un- 
observed into  the  bush,  probably  in  pursuit  of  some 
winged  wonder  that  had  crossed  his  path. 

Camp  was  made  early  in  the  afternoon  on  the  banks 
of  the  Doha  River,  and  a  strong  party,  with  shikari 
trackers,  led  by  Brown,  was  sent  out  in  search  of  the 
straggler.  Night  came  on  before  they  could  pick 
up  his  trail,  and  nothing  further  could  be  done  except 
to  build  signal  fires  on  adjacent  hills ;  but  all  without 
result.  Anxiety  for  his  safety  crystallized  into  chill 
fear  for  his  life,  when  the  dull  glow  of  the  signal  fires 
was  suddenly  extinguished  by  the  next  morning's  sun ; 
for  the  desert  knows  neither  twilight  nor  dawn  —  the 


THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED 

sun  bursts  up  blood-red  out  of  shrouding  darkness 
like  a  rocket  from  its  case,  and  at  once  it  is  day. 

An  hour  later  Brown's  shikaris  found  the  place 
where  Dubois-Desaulle  had  strayed  from  the  column, 
followed  his  trail  through  the  bush  hither  and  thither 
for  two  miles,  to  a  point  where  he  had  found  a  native 
warrior  seated  beneath  a  tree.  They  read,  with 
their  unerring  skill  at  u  sign  "  lore,  that  there  he  had 
stood  and  talked  for  some  time  with  the  native,  and 
then  pressed  on,  rider  and  footman  travelling  side  by 
side,  till,  within  the  shelter  of  especially  dense  sur- 
rounding bush,  the  footman  had  dropped  behind 
the  rider  —  for  what  dastardly  assassin's  purpose  the 
next  twenty  steps  revealed.  There  stark  lay  the  body 
of  gay  Dubois-Desaulle,  dropped  from  his  mule 
without  a  struggle  by  a  mortal  spear-thrust  in  his 
back,  the  manner  of  his  mutilation  a  Danakil's  sign 
manual ! 

Immediately  messengers  were  sent  to  the  caravan 
bearing  the  news  and  asking  reinforcements.  At  this 
time  the  indomitable  chief,  McMillan,  was  laid  up  with 
veldt  sores  on  the  legs,  unable  to  walk  or  even  to  ride 
except  in  a  litter.  Promptly,  however,  he  despatched 
Lieutenant  Fairfax  and  William  Marlow,  with  about 
thirty  more  men,  to  Brown's  support,  with  orders 
never  to  quit  till  he  got  the  murderer.  By  a  forced 
march,  Fairfax  reached  Brown  at  four  in  the 
afternoon. 

[323] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

When  journeying  in  desert  places  and  amid  deadly 
perils,  it  is  always  an  unusually  terrible  shock  to  lose 
one  from  among  so  few,  and  to  be  forced  to  lay  him 
in  unconsecrated  ground  remote  from  home  and 
friends.  So  it  was  a  sobbing,  saddened  trio  that 
stood  by  while  a  grave  was  dug  to  receive  all  that  was 
mortal  of  their  gallant  comrade.  And  within  it  they 
laid  him,  wrapped  in  the  ample  folds  of  an  Abyssin- 
ian tope;  stones  were  heaped  above  the  grave  —  at 
least  the  four-footed  beasts  should  not  have  a  chance 
to  rend  him !  —  and  three  volleys  were  fired  as  a  last 
honor  to  Dubois-Desaulle,  ex-legionary  of  the  Army 
of  Algiers. 

Tears  dried,  eyes  hardened,  jaws  tightened,  and 
away  on  the  plain  trail  of  the  murderer  marched  the 
little  column.  Turning  at  the  edge  of  the  thick  jun- 
gle for  a  last  look  back,  the  three  noted  an  extraordi- 
nary circumstance  that  touched  them  deeply  and 
made  them  feel  that  even  the  savage  desert  sympa- 
thized. A  miniature  whirlwind  of  the  sort  frequent 
in  the  desert  was  slowly  circling  the  grave ;  and  even 
as  they  looked  it  swung  immediately  over  it  and  there 
stood  for  some  moments,  its  tall  dust  column  rising 
up  into  the  zenith  like  the  smoke  of  a  funeral  pyre ! 
Then  on  they  marched  and  there  they  left  him,  sure 
that  by  night  lions  would  be  roaring  him  a  requiem 
not  unfitting  his  wild  spirit. 

Just  at  dusk  the  party  reached  a  large  Danakil 


THEY  WHO  MUST  BE  OBEYED 

town  into  which  the  murderer's  trail  led,  and  camped 
before  it. 

Told  that  one  of  his  men  had  killed  their  comrade 
and  that  they  wanted  him,  Ali  Gorah,  the  chief,  was 
surly  and  insolent.  He  refused  to  give  him  up,  said 
that  he  wished  no  war  with  them,  but  that  if  they 
wanted  any  of  his  people  they  must  fight  for  them. 
Then  guards  were  set  about  the  camp  and  the  little 
command  lay  down  to  sleep  within  a  spear's  throw  of 
thousands  of  Ali  Gorah's  wild  Danakils.  The  night 
passed  without  alarms,  and  then  conference  was  re- 
sumed. Fairfax  cajoled  and  threatened,  threatened 
summoning  an  army  that  would  wipe  Danakil's  land 
off  the  map;  but  all  to  no  purpose.  The  chief  re- 
mained obdurate. 

Early  in  the  day  a  courier  was  sent  to  McMillan 
with  the  story  of  their  plight  and  a  request  for  sup- 
plies and  more  men.  These  were  instantly  sent,  leav- 
ing McMillan  himself  well  nigh  helpless,  fuming  at 
his  own  enforced  inaction,  alone  with  the  Marlow, 
his  personal  attendant,  a  handful  of  men,  and  a  total 
of  only  two  rifles,  as  the  sole  guard  of  the  caravan 
for  ten  more  anxious  days. 

Daily  councils  were  held,  always  ending  in  mutual 
threats.  Fairfax  could  make  no  progress,  but  he 
would  not  leave. 

One  day  Ali  Gorah  lined  up  two  thousand  warriors 
in  battle  array  before  Fairfax's  small  command  and 
[325] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ordered  him  to  move  off,  under  pain  of  instant  attack. 
But  there  Fairfax  stubbornly  stayed,  in  the  very  face 
of  the  certainty  that  his  command  could  not  last  ten 
minutes  if  the  chief  should  actually  order  a  charge. 
His  dauntless  courage  won,  and  the  war  party  was 
withdrawn. 

In  the  meantime  some  of  his  Somalis  had  learned 
from  the  Danakils  that  the  murderer's  name  was 
Mirach,  and  that  he  was  the  greatest  warrior  of  the 
tribe,  a  man  with  trophies  of  all  sorts  of  royal  game 
and  of  no  less  than  forty  men  to  his  matrimonial 
credit.  By  the  eleventh  day  mutual  irritation  had 
nigh  reached  the  fusing  point.  Fairfax  had  care- 
fully trained  a  gun  crew  to  handle  a  Colt  machine- 
gun  that  McMillan  was  bringing  as  a  present  to  Ras 
Makonnen,  the  victor  of  the  field  of  Adowa,  and  de- 
bated with  his  mates  the  question  of  risking  an  at- 
tack. 

Luckily,  however,  the  previous  day  McMillan  had 
bethought  him  of  a  letter  of  Menelek's  he  carried,  a 
letter  ordering  all  his  subjects  to  lend  the  bearer  any 
aid  or  succor  he  might  need.  This  letter  he  sent  by 
his  Abyssinian  headman  to  Mantoock,  the  nearest 
Abyssinian  Ras  and  a  sort  of  overlord  of  the  Dana- 
kils, with  request  for  his  advice  and  aid.  Promptly 
came  Mantoock,  with  only  one  attendant,  heard  the 
story,  begged  McMillan  to  have  no  further  care,  and 
raced  away  for  Ali  Gorah's  village,  where  happily 
[326] 


Disarmed  and  shackled,  Mirach  remained  a  sullen  but 
defiant  prisoner" 


THEY  WHO 'MUST  BE  OBEYED 

he  arrived  in  mid  afternoon  of  the  eleventh  day,  just 
as  Fairfax  was  making  dispositions  for  opening  a 
finish  fight. 

Mantoock's  first  act  was  to  advise  Fairfax  to  with- 
draw his  command  and  rejoin  the  caravan;  and, 
assured  that  Mirach  would  be  brought  away  a  pris- 
oner, Fairfax  assented  and  withdrew.  Then  Man- 
toock  entered  alone  the  village  of  All  Gorah  and  there 
spent  the  night.  What  passed  that  night  between 
the  Christian  and  the  pagan  chiefs  we  do  not  know. 
Probably  little  was  said;  nothing  more  was  needed, 
indeed,  than  the  interpretation  of  the  letter  of  the 
Negus  and  the  exhibition  of  the  royal  seal  it  bore. 
Full  well  AH  Gorah  knew  the  heavy  penalty  of  dis- 
obedience. 

So  it  happened  that  near  noon  of  the  twelfth  day 
Mantoock  brought  Mirach  into  McMillan's  camp, 
accompanied  by  thirty  of  his  family  and  the  headmen 
of  the  tribe,  Mirach  marching  in  fully  armed  with 
spears  and  shield,  insolent  and  fearless. 

Asked  why  he  had  done  the  deed,  Mirach  replied: 

"I  was  resting  in  the  shade.  The  Feringee  ap- 
proached and  asked  me  to  guide  him  to  the  river.  I 
told  him  to  pass  on  and  not  to  disturb  me.  Then  he 
stayed  and  talked  and  talked  till  I  got  tired  and  told 
him  not  to  tempt  me  further ;  for  I  had  never  yet  had 
such  a  chance  to  kill  a  white  man.  Still  he  annoyed 
me  with  his  foolish  talk  until,  weary  of  it,  I  led  him 
[327] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

away  into  the  thickets  to  his  death  and  won  trophies 
dear  to  Danakil's  maidens." 

Three  camels,  worth  twenty  dollars  each,  or  a  total 
of  sixty  dollars,  is  usual  blood-money  in  Abyssinia. 
When  that  is  paid  and  received,  feuds  among  the 
tribesmen  end,  and  murders  are  soon  forgotten.  But 
Mirach  was  so  highly  valued  as  a  warrior  by  his  peo- 
ple that  they  offered  McMillan  no  less  than  three 
hundred  camels  for  his  life.  They  were  dumbfounded 
when  their  offer  was  refused. 

Disarmed  and  shackled,  Mirach  remained  a  sullen 
but  defiant  prisoner  with  the  caravan  for  the  next  two 
weeks'  march,  when  the  crossing  of  the  Hawash  River 
brought  them  well  into  Abyssinian  territory  and  made 
it  safe  to  rush  him  forward,  in  the  charge  of  a  small 
escort,  to  Adis  Ababa. 

There  he  was  tried  beneath  the  sombre  shade  of  the 
famous  Judgment  Tree,  condemned,  and  two  months 
later  hanged  in  the  market  place :  and  there  for  days 
his  grinning  face  and  shriveling  carcass  swung,  a 
menacing  proof  to  the  wildest  visiting  tribesmen  of 
them  all  of  the  vast  power  of  the  Negus  Negusti. 


[328] 


CHAPTER  XV 

DJAMA  AOUT'S  HEROISM 


«f   I    THROUGHOUT    Somaliland,    among    a    race 

famous   for  their  fearlessness,  the  name  of 

Djama  Aout  is  held  a  synonym  for  reckkss 

courage.     He  did  the  bravest  deed  I  ever  saw,  a  deed 

heroic  in  its  purpose,  ferociously  sage  in  its  execu- 

tion ;  the  deed  of  a  man  bred  of  a  race  that  knew  no 

longer-range  weapon  than  an  assegai,  trained  from 

youth  to  fight  and  kill  at  arm's  length  or  in  hand 

grapple  ;  a  deed  that,  incidentally,  saved  my  life." 

The  speaker  was  C.  W.  L.  Bulpett,  himself  well 
qualified  by  personal  experience  to  sit  in  judgment, 
as  Court  of  Last  Resort,  on  any  act  of  courage;  a 
man  who,  at  forty,  without  training  and  on  a  heavy 
wager  that  he  could  not  walk  a  mile,  run  a  mile,  and 
ride  a  mile,  all  in  sixteen  and  a  half  minutes,  finished 
the  three  miles  in  sixteen  minutes  and  seven  seconds  ; 
a  man  who,  midway  of  a  dinner  at  Greenwich,  bet 
that  he  could  swim  the  half-mile  across  the  Thames 
and  back  in  his  evening  clothes  before  the  coffee  was 
served,  and  did  it  ;  and  who  has  crossed  Africa  from 
Khartoom  to  the  Red  Sea. 

If  more  were  needed  to  prove  Mr.  Bulpett's  past- 
[329] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

mastership  in  hardihood,  it  is  perhaps  sufficient  to 
mention  that  he  voluntarily  got  himself  in  the  fix  that 
needed  Djama  Aout's  aid,  although  in  telling  the 
story  he  did  not  convey  the  impression  that  his  own 
part  in  it  was  more  than  secondary  and  inconsequen- 
tial 

"We  were  big-game  hunting,  lion  and  rhino  pre- 
ferred, along  the  border  of  Somaliland,"  he  contin- 
ued. "  Besides  the  pony  and  camel  men,  we  had  four 
Somali  shikaris,  trained  trackers,  who  knew  the  hab- 
its of  beasts  and  read  their  tracks  and  signs  like  a 
book ;  men  of  a  breed  whose  women  will  not  give  them- 
selves as  wives  except  to  men  who  have  scored  kills  of 
both  royal  game  and  men. 

"Sahib  McMillan's  personal  shikari  was  Djama 
Aout;  mine,  Abdi  Dereh.  At  the  time  of  this  inci- 
dent the  Sahib  had  several  lions  to  his  credit,  while  I 
yet  had  none.  So  the  Sahib  kindly  declared  that, 
however  and  by  whomsoever  jumped,  the  try  at  the 
next  lion  should  be  mine.  The  section  we  were  in 
was  the  usual  'lion  country'  of  East  Africa,  wide 
stretches  of  dry,  level  plain  with  occasional  low  roll- 
ing hills,  thinly  timbered  everywhere  with  the  thorny 
mimosa,  most  of  it  low  bush,  some  grown  to  small 
trees  twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  height. 

"To  cover  a  wider  range  of  shooting,  we  one  day 
decided  to  divide  the  camp,  and  I  moved  off  about 
lour  miles  and  pitched  my  tent  on  a  low  hill,  which 
[330] 


Throughout  Somaliland,  among  a  race  famous  for  their 
fearlessness,  the  name  of  Djama  Aout  is  held 
a  synonyme  for  reckless  courage" 


DJAMA  AOUT'S  HEROISM 

left  the  old  camp  in  clear  view  across  the  plain. 
Early  the  next  morning  I  went  out  after  eland  and 
had  an  excellent  morning's  sport.  Returned  to  camp 
shortly  after  noon  tired  and  dusty,  I  took  a  bath,  got 
into  pajamas  and  slippers,  had  my  luncheon,  and 
was  sitting  comfortably  smoking  within  my  tent,  when 
one  of  my  men  hurried  in  to  say  a  messenger  was 
coming  on  a  pony  at  top  speed.  Presently  he  ar- 
rived, with  word  from  the  Sahib  that  he  had  a  big 
male  lion  at  bay  in  a  thicket  bordering  the  river  and 
urging  me  to  hurry  to  him. 

"This  my  first  chance  at  lion,  I  seized  my  rifle, 
mounted  a  pony,  without  stopping  to  dress,  and,  fol- 
lowed by  Abdi  Dereh  and  another  shikari,  dashed 
away  behind  the  messenger  at  my  pony's  best  pace. 
Arrived,  I  found  the  Sahib  and  about  a  dozen  men, 
shikaris  and  pony  men,  surrounding  a  dense  mimosa 
thicket  no  more  than  thirty  or  forty  yards  in  di- 
ameter. Nigh  two-thirds  of  its  circumference  was 
bounded  by  a  bend  of  a  deep  stream  the  lion  was  not 
likely  to  try  to  cross,  which  left  a  comparatively 
narrow  front  to  guard  against  a  charge. 

"'Here  you  are,  Don  Carlos!'  called  the  Sahib, 
as  I  jumped  off  my  pony.  'Here's  your  lion  in  the 
bush.  Up  to  you  to  get  him  out.  Djama  Aout  and 
the  rest  will  stay  to  help  you  while  I  go  back  and 
move  the  caravan  to  a  new  camp-site.  No  sugges- 
tion to  make,  except  I  scarcely  think  I'd  go  in  the 
[331] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

bush  after  him;  too  thick  to  see  ten  feet  ahead  of 
you,'  and  away  he  rode  toward  his  camp. 

"  The  situation  was  simple,  even  to  a  novice  at  the 
game  of  lion-shooting.  With  my  line  of  shouting 
men  forced  to  range  themselves  across  the  narrow 
land  front  of  the  thicket  and  no  chance  of  his  exit  on 
the  river  front,  only  two  lines  of  strategy  remained: 
it  was  either  fire  the  bush  and  drive  him  out  upon  us 
or  enter  the  bush  on  hands  and  knees  and  creep  about 
till  I  sighted  him.  The  latter  was  well-nigh  suicidal, 
for  it  was  absolutely  sure  he  would  scent,  hear,  and 
locate  me  before  I  could  see  him,  and  thus  would  be 
almost  complete  master  of  the  situation.  Naturally, 
therefore,  I  first  had  the  bush  fired,  as  near  to  wind- 
ward as  the  bend  of  the  river  permitted,  and  took  a 
stand  covering  his  probable  line  of  exit  from  the 
thicket.  But  it  was  a  failure — not  enough  dead 
wood  to  carry  the  fire  through  the  bush  and  it  soon 
flickered  and  died  out.  Thus  nothing  remained  but 
the  last  alternative,  and  I  took  it. 

"Dropping  on  hands  and  knees,  I  began  to  creep 
into  the  thicket.  Soon  my  hands  were  bleeding  from 
the  dry  mimosa  thorns  littering  the  ground,  my  back 
from  the  thorny  boughs  arching  low  above  me.  For 
some  distance  I  could  see  no  more  than  the  length  of 
my  rifle  before  me  or  to  right  or  left.  Presently, 
when  near  the  centre  of  the  brush  patch,  Abdi  Dereh 
next  behind  me,  a  second  shikari  behind  him,  and 
[332] 


DJAMA  AOUT'S  HEROISM 

Djama  Aout  bringing  up  the  rear,  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  lion's  hind  quarters  and  tail,  scarcely  six  feet 
ahead  of  me. 

"  I  fired  at  once,  most  imprudently,  for  the  expo- 
sure could  not  possibly  afford  a  fatal  shot.  Instantly 
after  the  shot,  the  lion  circled  the  dense  clump  imme- 
diately in  front  of  me  and  charged  me  through  a  nar- 
row opening.  As  he  came,  I  gave  him  my  second 
barrel  from  the  hip  —  no  time  to  aim  —  and  in  trying 
to  spring  aside  out  of  his  path,  slipped  in  my  loose 
slippers  and  fell  flat  on  my  back. 

"Later  we  learned  that  my  first  shot  had  torn 
through  his  loins  and  my  second  had  struck  between 
neck  and  shoulder  and  ranged  the  entire  length  of  his 
body.  But  even  the  terrible  shock  of  two  great  .450 
cordite-driven  balls  did  not  serve  to  stop  him,  and  the 
very  moment  I  hit  the  ground  he  lit  diagonally  across 
my  body,  his  belly  pressing  mine,  his  hot  breath 
burning  my  cheek,  his  fierce  eyes  glaring  into  mine. 

"Though  it  seemed  an  age,  the  rest  was  a  matter 
of  seconds.  Abdi  Dereh,  my  rifle-bearer,  was  in  the 
act  of  shoving  the  gun  muzzle  against  the  lion's  ribs 
for  a  shot  through  the  heart,  when  a  shot  from  with- 
out the  bush  —  we  never  learned  by  whom  fired,  prob- 
ably by  one  of  the  pony  men — broke  his  arm  and 
knocked  him  flat.  Then  the  second  shikari  sprang 
forward  and  bent  to  pick  up  the  gun,  when  one  stroke 
of  the  lion's  great  fore  paw  tore  away  most  of  the 
[333] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

flesh  from  one  side  of  his  head  and  face  and  laid  him 
senseless. 

"  Freed  for  an  instant  from  the  attacks  of  my  men, 
the  lion  turned  to  the  prey  held  helpless  beneath  him, 
and  with  a  fierce  roar,  was  in  the  very  act  of  advanc- 
ing his  cavernous  mouth  and  gleaming  fangs  to  seize 
me  by  the  head,  when  in  jumped  Djama  Aout  to  my 
succor.  His  only  weapon  was  the  Sahib's  .38  Smith 
&  Wesson  self-cocking  six-shooter;  His  was  the 
quickest  piece  of  sound  thinking,  shrewd  acting,  and 
desperate  valor  conceivable.  I  was  staring  death  in 
the  face  —  he  knew  it  at  a  glance.  Just  within  those 
enormous  jaws,  and  all  would  be  over  with  me.  The 
light  charge  of  the  pistol,  however  placed,  would  be 
little  more  than  a  flea-bite  on  a  monster  already 
ripped  laterally  and  longitudinally  through  and 
through  by  two  great  .450  cordite  shells.  Indeed 
the  lion  was  not  even  gasping  from  his  wounds ;  his 
great  heart  was  beating  strong  and  steady  against 
mine.  Of  what  avail  a  little  pistol-ball,  or  six  of 
them? 

"All  this  must  have  raced  through  Djama  Aout's 
brain  in  a  second,  in  the  very  second  Shikall  Number 
Two  was  falling  under  the  lion's  blow.  In  another 
second  he  conceived  a  plan,  absolutely  the  only  one 
that  possibly  could  have  saved  me. 

"Just  at  the  instant  the  lion  turned  and  opened 

[334] 


I 


By  F.  T.  Johnson 

"  Within  the  lion's  jaws  and  into  his  great  yawning  mouth 
Djama  Aout  thrust  pistol,  hand,  and  forearm" 


DJAMA  AOUT'S  HEROISM 

his  jaws  to  seize  and  crush  ray  head,  forward  sprang 
Djama  Aout;  within  the  lion's  jaws  and  into  his  great 
yawning  mouth  Djama  Aout  thrust  pistol,  hand,  and 
forearm,  and,  though  the  hard-driven  teeth  crunched 
cruelly  through  sinews  and  into  bone,  steadily  pulled 
the  trigger  till  the  pistol's  six  loads  were  discharged 
down  the  lion's  very  throat! 

"Shrinking  from  the  shock  of  the  shots,  the  lion 
released  Djama  Aout's  mangled  arm  and  freed  me 
of  his  weight.  Unhurt,  even  unscratched  by  the  lion, 
I  quickly  swung  myself  up  into  the  biggest  mimosa 
near,  a  poor  four  feet  from  the  ground,  within  easy 
reach  of  our  enemy  if  he  had  not  been  too  sick  of 
his  wounds  to  leap  at  me. 

"Having  fallen  from  the  pain  and  shock  of  his 
wounded  arm,  Djama  Aout  rose,  backed  off  a  little 
distance,  and  stood  at  bay,  the  pistol  clubbed  in  his 
left  hand. 

"  While  apparently  sick  unto  death,  the  lion  might 
muster  strength  for  a  last  attack,  so  I  called  to 
Marlow,  who,  under  orders,  had  waited  without  the 
thicket,  bearing  an  elephant  gun.  Ignorant  of 
whether  or  not  the  lion  was  even  wounded,  in  the 
brave  boy  came,  crept  in  range  and  fired  a  great 
eight-bore  ball  fair  through  the  lion's  heart. 

"  It  was  only  a  few  hours  until,  working  with  knife 
and  tweezers,  the  Sahib  had  all  the  mimosa  thorns  dug 

-, 

[  S35  1 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

out  of  my  back  and  legs,  but  it  was  many  months 
before  Djama  Aout  recovered  partial  use  of  his  good 
right  arm,  and  it  may  very  well  be  generations  be- 
fore the  story  of  his  heroic  deed  ceases  to  be  sung  in 
Somali  villages,'* 


[838] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   MODERN   CCEUH-DE-LION 

TO  seek  to  come  to  death  grips  with  the  King  of 
Beasts,  a  man  must  himself  be  nothing  short 
of  lion-hearted.  Such  men  there  are,  a  few, 
men  with  an  inborn  lust  of  battle,  a  love  of  staking 
their  own  lives  against  the  heaviest  odds ;  men  who, 
lacking  a  Crusader's  cult  or  a  country's  need  to  cut 
and  thrust  for,  go  out  among  the  savage  denizens  of 
the  desert  seeking  opportunity  to  fight  for  their  faith 
in  their  own  strong  arms  and  steady  nerves ;  men  who 
shrink  from  a  laurel  but  treasure  a  trophy.  William 
Northrup  McMillan,  a  native  of  St.  Louis,  who  has 
spent  the  last  eight  years  in  exploration  of  the  Blue 
Nile  and  in  travel  through  Abyssinia  and  British 
East  Africa,  is  such  a  man. 

A  friend  of  Mr.  McMillan  has  told  me  the  follow- 
ing story  of  one  of  his  hunting  experiences.  While  I 
can  only  tell  it  in  simple  prose,  the  deed  described 
deserves  perpetuity  in  the  stately  metre  of  a  saga. 

The  Jig-Jigga  country,  a  province  of  Abyssinia 
lying  near  the  border  of  British  Somaliland  and  gov- 
erned by  Abdullah  Dowa,  an  Arab  sheik  owing  alle- 
giance to  King  Menelek,  is  the  best  lion  country  in  all 
[337] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

Africa.  'Jig-Jigga  is  an  arid  plateau  averaging 
5,000  feet  above  sea  level,  poorly  watered  but  gener- 
ously grassed,  sparsely  timbered  with  the  thorny  mi- 
mosa (full  brother  to  our  own  Texas  mesquite),  and 
swarming  everywhere  with  innumerable  varieties  of 
the  wild  game  on  which  the  lion  preys  and  fattens  — 
eland,  oryx,  hartebeest,  gazelle,  and  zebra. 

There  are  two  ways  of  hunting  lion.  First,  from 
the  perfectly  safe  shelter  of  a  zareba,  a  tightly  en- 
closed hut  built  of  thorny  mimosa  bows,  with  no  open- 
ing but  a  narrow  porthole  for  rifle  fire.  Within  the 
zareba  the  hunter  is  shut  in  at  nightfall  by  his  shika- 
ris, usually  having  one  shikari  with  him,  sometimes 
with  a  goat  as  a  third  companion  and  a  lure  for  lion. 
An  occasional  bite  of  the  goat's  ear  by  sharp  shikari 
teeth  inspires  shrill  bleats  sure  to  bring  any  lion  lurk- 
ing near  in  range  of  the  hunter's  rifle.  At  other 
times  goat  ears  are  spared,  and  the  loudest-braying 
donkey  of  the  caravan  is  picketed  immediately  in 
front  of  the  zareba's  porthole,  his  normal  vocal  activ- 
ities stimulated  by  the  occasional  prod  of  a  stick. 
Sometimes  several  weary  sleepless  nights  are  spent 
without  result,  but  sooner  or  later,  without  the  slight- 
est sound  hinting  his  approach,  suddenly  a  great  yel- 
low body  flashes  out  of  the  darkness  and  upon  the 
cringing  lure.  For  an  instant  there  are  the  sinister 
sounds  of  savage  snarls,  rending  flesh,  cracking  bones, 
and  screams  of  pain  and  fear,  and  then  a  dull  red 
[338] 


A  MODERN  CCEUR-DE-LION 

flash  heralds  the  rifle's  roar,  and  the  tawny  terror 
falls  gasping  his  life  out  across  his  prey. 

The  second,  and  the  only  sportsmanlike  way  of 
lion-hunting,  is  by  tracking  him  in  the  open.  The 
pony  men  circle  till  they  find  a  trail,  follow  it  till 
close  enough  to  the  game  to  race  ahead  and  bring  it 
to  bay,  circle  about  it  while  a  messenger  brings  up 
the  Sahib,  who  dismounts  and  advances  afoot  to  a 
combat  wherein  the  echo  of  a  misplaced  shot  may 
sound  his  own  death-knell. 

One  morning  while  camped  in  the  Jig-Jigga  coun- 
try, William  Marlow,  our  Sahib's  valet,  was  out  with 
the  pony  men  trailing  a  wounded  oryx,  while  the 
Sahib  himself  was  three  miles  away  shooting  eland. 
In  mid  forenoon  Marlow's  men  struck  the  fresh  track 
of  two  great  male  lions,  plainly  out  on  a  hunting 
party  of  their  own. 

Instantly  Marlow  rushed  a  messenger  away  to 
fetch  the  Sahib,  and  he  and  the  pony  men  then  took 
the  trail  at  a  run.  Within  two  hours  the  pony  men 
succeeded  in  circling  the  quarry  and  stopping  it  in 
a  mimosa  thicket.  Shortly  thereafter,  while  they 
were  circling  and  shouting  about  the  thicket  to  pre- 
vent a  charge  before  the  Sahib's  arrival,  an  incident 
occurred  which  proves  alike  the  utter  fearlessness  and 
the  marvellous  knowledge  of  the  game  of  the  Somali. 
Suddenly  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  thicket  sprang 
one  of  the  lions  and  launched  himself  like  a  thunder- 
[339] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

bolt  upon  one  of  the  pony  men,  bearing  horse  and 
rider  to  the  ground.  Losing  his  spear  in  the  fall  and 
held  fast  by  one  leg  beneath  his  horse,  the  rider  was 
defenceless.  However,  he  seized  a  thorny  stick  and 
began  beating  the  lion  across  the  face,  while  the  lion 
tore  at  the  pony's  flank  and  quarters.  Then  down 
from  his  horse  sprang  another  pony  man,  and  know- 
ing he  could  not  kill  the  lion  with  his  spear  quickly 
enough  to  save  his  companion,  approached  and 
crouched  directly  in  front  of  the  lion  till  his  own  face 
was  scarcely  two  feet  from  the  lion's,  and  there  made 
such  frightful  grimaces  and  let  off  such  shrill  shrieks, 
that,  frightened  from  his  prey,  the  lion  slunk  snarling 
to  the  edge  of  the  thicket. 

Just  at  this  moment  the  Sahib  raced  upon  the 
scene,  accompanied  by  his  Secretary,  H.  Morgan 
Brown.  In  the  run  he  had  far  outdistanced  his  gun- 
bearers.  Marlow  was  unarmed  and  Brown  carried 
nothing  but  a  camera.  Thus  the  Sahib9 s  single-shot 
.577  rifle  was  the  only  effective  weapon  in  the  party, 
and  for  it  he  did  not  even  have  a  single  spare  car- 
tridge. The  one  little  cylinder  of  brass  within  the 
chamber  of  his  rifle,  with  the  few  grains  of  powder 
and  nickeled  lead  it  held,  was  the  only  certain  safe- 
guard of  the  group  against  death  or  mangling. 

All  this  must  have  flashed  across  the  Sahib9 s  mind 
as  he  leaped  from  his  pony  and  took  stand  in  the  open, 
sixty  steps  from  where  the  lion  stood  roaring  and 
[340] 


A  MODERN  CCEUR-DE-LION 

savagely  lashing  his  tail.  A  little  back  of  the  Sahib 
and  to  his  left  stood  Brown  with  his  camera,  beside 
him  Marlow. 

Instantly,  firm  planted  on  his  feet,  the  Sahib  threw 
the  rifle  to  his  face  for  a  steady  standing  shot.  But 
quicker  even  than  this  act,  instinctively,  the  furious 
King  of  Beasts  had  marked  the  giant  bulk  of  the  Sahib 
as  the  one  foeman  of  the  half-score  round  him  worthy 
of  his  gleaming  ivory  weapons,  and  at  him  straight 
he  charged  the  very  instant  the  gun  was  levelled,  com- 
ing in  great  bounds  that  tossed  clouds  of  dust  behind 
him,  coming  with  hoarse  roars  at  every  bound,  roars 
to  shake  nerves  not  made  of  steel  and  still  the  beating 
of  the  stoutest  heart.  On  came  the  lion,  and  there 
stood  the  Sahib  —  on  and  yet  on  —  till  it  must  have 
seemed  to  his  companions  that  the  Sahib  was  frozen 
in  his  tracks. 

But  all  the  time  a  firm  hand  and  a  true  eye  held  the 
bead  of  the  rifle  sight  to  close  pursuit  of  the  lion's 
every  move,  so  held  it  till  only  a  narrow  sixteen  yards 
separated  man  and  beast.  Then  the  Sahib's  rifle 
cracked ;  and,  with  marvellous  nerve,  Brown  snapped 
his  camera  a  second  later  and  caught  the  picture  of 
the  kill.  Hitting  the  beast  squarely  in  the  forehead 
just  at  the  take-off  of  a  bound,  the  heavy  .577  bullet 
cleaned  out  the  lion's  brain  pan  and  killed  him  in- 
stantly, his  body  turning  in  mid-air  and  hitting  the 
ground  inert.  A  better  rifle-shot  would  be  impossi- 
[341] 


THE  RED-BLOODED 

ble,  and  as  good  a  camera  snapshot  has  certainly 
never  been  made  in  the  very  face  of  instant,  impend- 
ing, deadly  peril. 

A  half-hour  later  Lion  Number  Two,  slower  of  res- 
olution than  his  mate,  fell  to  the  Sahib's  first  shot,  with 
a  broken  neck,  while  lashing  himself  into  fit  fury  for 
a  charge.  This  was  more  even  than  a  royal  kill; 
each  of  the  lions  was,  in  size,  a  record  among  Jig- 
Jigga  hunters,  the  first  measuring  eleven  feet,  one 
inch  from  tip  of  nose  to  tip  of  tail,  the  second  eleven 
feet. 

And  then  the  party  marched  back  to  camp  with  the 
trophies,  Djama  Aout,  the  head  shikari,  chanting 
paeans  to  his  Sahib' 's  prowess,  while  his  mates  roared  a 
hoarse  Somali  chorus,  and  all  night  long,  by  ancient 
law  of  shikari,  the  camp  feasted,  chanted,  and  danced, 
one  sable  saga-maker  after  another  chanting  his  pride 
to  serve  so  valiant  a  Sahib. 

THE  END 


